Waitin' On An Eagle's Feather
by HigherMagic
Summary: Gabriel was too good for Hell but too bad for Heaven. 'Sins to atone for' I asked, 'I don't have a soul to cleanse.' Written for the Gabriel BigBang on Livejournal. Rated for graphic scenes of death and violence.
1. Waitin' On An Eagle's Feather

Title: Waitin' On An Eagle's Feather  
>Author: HigherMagic<br>Pairings: Sort of Sam/Gabriel you have the hat for it.  
>Rating: R for violence, swearing and some graphic disturbing images.<br>Word Count: 15,955  
>Spoilers: Elysian Fields? No? Then don't read.<br>**Notes: **Gabriel's POV, and getting inside Gabriel's head is SO HARD, but I was trying to go for the more 'Archangel' part of him, and not the 'Trickster' persona. I think it went okay. Thank you to gattaparda for her lovely artwork! Check it out.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Gabriel wasn't good enough for Heaven, or bad enough for Hell; _"'Sins to atone for'?" I repeated, blinking – purgatory was for humans, thank you. "I don't have a soul to cleanse."_

* * *

><p>I woke up, and everything was strange. It was cold. So fucking cold, and that's <em>not natural, <em>damn it. All I could remember was the feeling of a blade sliding right through into my gut, straight through and _up, _slicing my spine in half and ripping apart all the organs in the way. The way Archangel blades work – they stab, and then separate, like a controlled grenade, and I gasped as the many spikes penetrated more deeply into my flesh, giving the vague sensation of having swallowed a sea urchin. My Brother's hand had been warm on me, and when I look down at my arm now, there's a print left behind. Lucifer had branded me before I died.

I'm cold, now. It's been three days. Three days from when I closed my eyes and relaxed my wings against the wood and lacquer of the Elysian Fields, and from when I opened my eyes again. When I try and move, or flex anything, I can't. It's so cold and I can't even shiver.

There's darkness. Which is kind of a rip-off, really, because _Hello? _Archangel? Surely I get to, you know, _go home. _But noooo, there's just nothingness for the Archangels, right?

_I once saw a man with a dagger in his back  
>And the moon in one eye, in the other only black.<br>Half Demon, Half Deity, this man walked far and wide  
>With armies of Angels, Laudations in their stride.<em>

My eyes – the only part of me I could move – roved around, trying to search out the sound of the singing. To the tune of 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic' – which, oh good Father, why? – repeated, getting louder and gaining voices until it was a loud, creepy war-cry, the verse repeating over and over again. Children began to sing it, adding layers and layers in impossible octaves to the song until it was deafening, and I wanted to cover my ears but I couldn't. I could only lay in blank suspension as I felt my eardrums burst and blood running down the sides of my face as the voices grew louder and louder, crashing the nothingness around me.

The black fell away in shards. It revealed a road. As I watched, my blood ran down more heavily, painting the road with markers and lane-lines, and then it grew shape and form, the white of the sky swirling into a light mix of golds and reds and purples – a sunset of the Holy Spirit. The road spread out and became a sea. I stood on the edge of the sea, still in that dreadful blackness that was looming up behind me like a great chasm, mouth open and waiting for me to fall inside. As I watched the massive body of black water, boats sailed across it, kicking up waves as they went that were fringed in the crimson of my blood. The singing kept going, the rush and roar of the waves adding music underneath, with drums creating thunder and high voices screaming the top notes, until I couldn't tell if the music was affecting the scene, or vice versa. Clouds began to form overhead, black and red and angry-looking and rained down liquid fire. Wherever it set on the waves the fire leapt in green light and spread. The red was banished in the light of the green, and the voices stopped. The noise of the sea stopped.

It was silent for a long while. I tried moving anything, and found that I could lift my hand and blink. My eyes moved upward, where the clouds were coming together now, having left their load behind. They merged and formed a mouth – huge, covering the entire sky. With the black mouth behind me and this green-red one in front of me, I had no choice but to be still.

The mouth solidified, opened, and spoke;

_Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity  
>And cleanse me from my sin.<br>For I know my transgressions,  
>And my sin is ever before me.<br>Against You, You only, I have sinned  
>And done what is evil in Your sight,<br>You are justified when You speak  
>And blameless when You judge.<em>

I shivered from the force of the words, and it sent me to my knees. Psalms. Psalm 51 – or parts of it, anyway. My knees were wetted with the kittenish licks of the fiery ocean, and a burn spread through me. I covered my ears, not wanting to hear the powerful voice anymore, but it was Grace deep, _soul _deep, and I had no choice.

_Purify me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;  
>Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.<br>Make me to hear joy and gladness,  
>Let the bones which You have broken rejoice.<br>Hide Your face from my sins_

_And blot out all my iniquities._

_Create in me a clean heart, O God,  
>And renew a steadfast spirit within me.<br>Do not cast me away from Your presence  
>And do not take Your Holy Spirit from me…<em>

Tears were running down my face, blending with the salt of the sea as they fell. The edges of the clouds were beginning to fall, and the sea rose up. As it rose, creating a giant steeple that began to pile into the mouth, I cried out, struck by the coldness returning from the black mouth behind me as it began to swallow me. I tried running forward, but my legs wouldn't work yet, and my wings no longer existed. With the retreating borders of the fiery water the dark mouth was coming closer, no longer afraid of the light.

I've only been truly terrified a handful of times for my life. This was one of those times.

_Deliver me from bloodguiltiness,  
>O God, the God of my salvation;<em>

Before I even knew what I was doing, I began to pray, to beg to a Father I hadn't heard the voice of for so long, and I begged him to save me, to be merciful. The nothingness was coming closer, and slowly I felt feeling coming into my arms. I tried crawling forward, chasing the water as it continued to rise into the mouth in a great pillar of salt and fire.

_Then my tongue will joyfully sing of Your righteousness.  
>O Lord, open my lips, That my mouth may declare Your praise.<em>

The mouth was swallowing the water, holding all of the light within its gaping maw, and I finally was able to run. I ran for my life, but I couldn't follow. My wings weren't working, if they were even there in the first place, and I fell to my knees below the mouth as it remained open. The darkness surrounded me on all sides, but was unable to come closer, driven back by the beam of light still shining down on me. Around me the air shimmered, and for a moment I thought I could see my wings, but they vanished, and I still couldn't fly.

The mouth began to shut, and I cried out again; "No, Father, please no!" I couldn't be left behind. My Father would not be so cold as to leave me here in this terrifying darkness and cold forever, surely? "Please, Father, mercy!"

The darkness was creeping closer, champing at the bit, the howls of Hell hounds filled it and jagged, serrated teeth began to descend on me from all sides.

"Yet give attention to Your servant's prayer and his plea for mercy, Oh Lord, my God. Hear the cry and the prayer that Your servant is praying in Your presence this day," I cried one last, desperate time, before the mouth closed, and the other descended, and I tried in vain to protect myself from its attack.

"_The prayers of the faithful, you say? Hah! There is no faith. Not anymore. Cold, hard certainty for this one, isn't it? He can't believe – never could, never had to. Spoiled, that's what this one is! Why should he be saved? Can he? Spoiled, rotten, dead! Look what he is – cold and shivering on the ground. The highest creature of the highest plain brought to nothing. Useless! Rotten! Spoiled! Dead!"_

More voices…So many of them. Pounding in my head, merciless and unending. I cried out with a hoarse voice for them to stop, reaching a hand out, and froze. My Brother's handprint still lay on my upper arm, red and peeling and angry-looking. It burned like infection on my skin, made me want to claw inside myself to rip out the poison of it. I clutched at my chest, feeling it whole and uneaten. I had no wounds on me. Nothing to say the darkness had ever been there aside from the damage to my Grace…

It lay in shreds. My Grace was pulsing with weak light but it wouldn't last long. I pushed myself to my feet, looking around this new place, and trying to get even enough brain power to wonder where the Hell I was. I held my hands in front of my face, and they were shaking. I was still trembling with that awful fear of knowing I was getting left behind, my prayers and cries of mercy going unheeded. I shuddered, pushing the thought away.

I'm dead. I'm pretty sure of that, anyway.

I looked around again. There was nothing…just whiteness. Empty expanses of whiteness, and the quiet murmuring of the voices, stage-whispering to me those words, mixed with mocking Psalms and snippets of hymns. It grated on me, my shredded Grace quivering with righteous anger at the thought of these demon-voices mocking my Father and the words of Him.

There wasn't much else to do except walk. Around me I tried to create images, to see if this nothingness could be bent into my will, but there was just more nothing. My legs were weak, still unused to, well, use. My heart was still beating frantically, sure that any minute now I would come across an enemy, or the giant mouth would come back and completely destroy me this time, and I would never see Heaven again.

Because if I was dead, then at least I was getting home, damn it.

I walked…and walked…I don't know how long for. There was a dryness in my throat and an ache muscle-deep that I knew I wasn't getting a break from any time soon. The air seemed to rasp like sand paper against the inside of my neck, and though I tried rubbing at it and wincing when it only hurt, I kept trying, and walking, hoping that maybe eventually I would come across _something, _because, despite popular belief, everywhere _does _lead somewhere. Even when there's nothing.

I don't know how long I walked for, but I felt the skin of my vessel dry and crack from lack of moisture, and I was losing weight steadily from constant exercise and no food or drink. I licked my lips to find them chapped and dry, and the worse they got the more I licked them until they were cracked and bleeding, and when I wiped my dry palm across my face it came back bloody. Soon it became too painful to even move a muscle in my face, so it was stuck into blankness as I just trudged on.

Shoulders drooping, head heavy, I found that after several days (guesswork, completely) I couldn't walk anymore. I had to rest. So I sat down on one stretch of whiteness amongst many, finding it to be hard and unyielding, and I tried to just take a break. I could walk more later – it wasn't like wherever I was going was going to disappear.

_When I dreamt, I saw my Father. He had a smile amidst the glowing aura that was His face. I tried running forward, but again I couldn't move. Behind me, though I couldn't see, I knew there stood thousands and thousands of pillars. Hard, tall, unyielding pillars made of many different things – glass, marble, salt, and stone. My Father looked on me with all these pillars, and His eyes turned sad._

"_You face me with such an army, my son," He said, and I felt His voice in my very being. My Grace shivered and my wings shifted behind me, falling to the ground in one fell swoop. The air echoed with the sound of so many feathers falling._

"_I'm sorry, Father," I replied to Him, and I was. So, so sorry, for turning away, for running. But really, He was no better. "I will banish them. Just let me come home."_

"_I cannot. Not yet," He said, drawing back. I wanted to follow, but the heavy weight of my army of pillars had embedded themselves in my wings, and I couldn't lift them enough to fly. "When you have destroyed your army, and wiped your wings clean of them, then you are welcome. I'll be waiting, my son."_

_Then He was gone, and I was faced on all sides by mountains of soldiers as they advanced on me. His light was shut out soon after._

I was warm when I woke up again. Feverish, almost, and I climbed up, suddenly bursting with energy again. I felt it as a warm lump of energy in the middle of myself, and looked in to see my Grace had been almost completely recharged. Fast healing, even for me. Body heat was a red haze in front of my eyes, and I shouldn't have even been giving _out _body heat. Angels don't respire, or breathe, or get tired or hungry or thirsty or feverish, but I was feeling all of those things intensely.

When my stomach rumbled, seconds later, I almost doubled over from the force of it. I was sent to my knees, one arm bracing me forward, and the other wrapped around my stomach, gasping for air that I suddenly couldn't get. My heart picked up, deafening me as the voices began to grow louder – "_Traitor! Spoiled! Archangel!" _

"Dear Father…" I moaned, trying to cover my ears again, squeezing my eyes tight and trying, _begging _to create something for me to focus on. I opened my eyes and tried to run, to keep going. I ran, and ran, and the voices molded into howling. Hell hounds, chasing after me, and I tried to run faster but I couldn't fly away.

They caught me many miles down, and I saw them – dirty, great things – shining with the inner fiery water that had abandoned me before, and I cried because, if this was my salvation, than I was as good as dead. The Hell hounds growled, hackles raising as they sniffed at me, and the momentary shiver that was my wings, and howled again, circling.

Light. Red light from their shifting, glowing forms. The blackness of the smoke that made them up kept shifting, getting little beams of that light, and that was the only light I had seen in far, far too long. How far had I fallen, that I was begging _Hell hounds _for mercy?

One of the Hell hounds stepped forward, and I tensed, waiting for the beginning blow – if the darkness hadn't killed me, then these definitely would. _"You have heard that it was said to those of old, 'You shall not murder; and whoever murders will be liable to judgment.'__,"_ she said, the words a dreadful hiss that made my very Grace shudder, and my wings solidified again for a moment. _"__But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his Brother__will be liable to judgment; whoever insults__his Brother will be liable to the council; and whoever says, 'You fool!' will be liable to the Hell__of fire."_

"Is that why you're here?" I asked, eyebrow raised and I glared into her blank, yellow eyes, fighting down the fear and knowledge that, without my blade or my wings and in my weakened state, these creatures could easily drag me to Hell. "To judge me? To kill me?"

The she-hound snorted, and the smoke around her nostrils parted, blinding me momentarily with her red inner light. "We cannot kill you."

"Yes," I answered, "you can."

And I kind of wanted to die. Or at least _know. _I wanted to have the definite answer, because we Archangels are sticklers for answers.

The hound shook her head, and hissed at her Brother as he came forward to huff at me, snarling at the handprint on my upper arm. "So long as you bear His mark, you cannot die," she said, sounding kind of…smug, about that. "And as long as you cannot die, we cannot kill you." She dipped her head forward, snorting again at my forehead. "You are stuck with us for a while, Archangel."

"Fantastic," I said, pushing myself to my feet. "Just waiting around to kill me?"

The she-hound didn't answer, but she snorted again, blinding her Brother, and took her place at my left-hand side. The male stationed himself to my right, and this was so _not _normal, but then again, I was apparently stuck in Limbo with two Hell hounds as companions, just waiting for me to become mortal…in Limbo.

Sigh. Never say Archangels have it easy.

I kept walking, the trots of my companions finally providing some noise in this silent place.

Well, at least it provided conversation now.

"How did you two get in, then?"

"We had to follow," the female answered – it seemed like her Brother wasn't much of a talker – "When Lucifer killed you, he attached his Grace to you on accident. We are here to make sure you cannot drag him in with you."

"I can do that?" I asked, surprised, because it didn't seem likely.

The she-hound grinned, baring her large serrated canines at me. "I wouldn't try."

"Is there a way out, if there is a way in?" I asked.

"No."

She didn't elaborate, and fell silent after that, no matter how much I tried to get her to talk again. Even their footsteps fell silent and we kept walking, following blank squares of nothing with blank squares of nothing. I had the vague sensation of being a cartoon character before the scenery is drawn. I was still losing weight, getting weaker by the minute and unable to find a good source of food and water, and so as we kept walking my pace began to slow, feet dragging and shoulders hunched once more.

Okay…_surely _there was _something? _I mean, okay maybe I wasn't the most patient person in the world (okay, definitely) but still…I was just walking…on and on.

"Do you know how long I've been in here?" I asked absently, not really expecting the hound to reply.

She did, but didn't say what I expected; "Are you hungry, Archangel? Thirsty? Tired?" she asked, smiling slightly in that jagged, sinister way, her smoke shifting again around her eye and coloring the air red. "Sit down, and rest a while. We can get you food, and water, and anything else you would like."

"Really?" I asked, not quite believing, because if that was the case then I could have snapped up myself a freaking buffet already. She nodded, her tail flicking slightly behind her as she grinned again. I contemplated it, walking still while I thought, because food would sound pretty good right about now…and maybe some Diet Orange Slice…

But then again. These are Hell hounds. How good can their promises possibly be?

I kept walking, and thinking, and the more I walked and thought, the more a good meal, bed (and maybe a woman or two, but I wasn't counting on that) sounded more and more attractive. Hell, I was an _Archangel, _stuck here because apparently my Brother wanted to start some weird Grace bromance and couldn't chance me pulling him back in, with Hell hounds for company and white space that didn't seem to be ending any time soon.

But just as I was about to answer, the voices returned;

"'_No one can live only on food. People need every word that God has spoken!'"_

"_'Don't try to test the Lord your God!'"_

"_'Worship the Lord your God and serve only him!'"_

I sucked in a breath again, wincing at the loud echo of it, and wondered where in my Father's name it could be coming from. The Hell hounds howled and the female reared and snarled, the smoke that she was made from swirling and disintegrating, blown away like dust in the wind. I looked to my other side, and her Brother dissolved in the same way.

"What -?" I kept looking around, afraid for what would make Hell hounds just disintegrate…unless I am really going crazy.

"You're not going crazy."

I whirled around again, finding myself face to face with…me. I blinked, trying to see if it actually would go away – proving that I was, once again, crazy – but no…I stayed. It was me – had my face, my vessel, my…aura, I guess. But it wasn't me.

This wasn't Loki, or the new Gabriel. This is the Archangel I used to be. I was looking into the eyes of my former self. When I frowned, he smiled, cocking his head to one side. He – I – wore what had been considered 'casual', in Heaven. Like a t-shirt with slits cut from the bottom for the wings, ties around those so that the garment didn't flutter in the wind needlessly, and it extended so it was almost at his feet, unable to hide the fact that they were bare. Around his waist was a smooth leather belt, cinched loosely with several scrolls tucked into loops that hung at his sides. His hair was shorter – a weird thing to observe, but I hadn't been allowed to let it get in the way. I had to be the fastest, back then. I was the Messenger, after all.

"Hello, Gabriel," I said.

"Um…Hi, me," I replied, feeling awkward when faced with the serene being I used to be, and ashamed at the fact that I was now apparently reduced to befriending Hell hounds and screaming at nothing, hearing voices. Dear Father, I am going crazy. "What are we doing here?"

"Do you know why you're here?" I shook my head, unnerved by the plastic ever-smile on my clone's face. "You're not ready for Heaven, yet. Your time wasn't up." Wait, so…_what? _If we're going to be waiting around here until I die, then we'll be here a freaking long time, since apparently I'm not going to die here. "You fell, and you have sins to atone for before you can rise again."

"'Sins to atone for'?" I repeated, blinking – purgatory was for humans, thank you. "I don't have a soul to cleanse."

"Grace can be tainted, Gabriel," the Messenger replied, eyes flickering down to rest on the handprint burned into my arm. Instinctively I moved back, wanting to cover it up from my own prying eyes. Even as he spoke of it I could feel the darkness of my Brother's Grace curling around mine, tying me to the living world. "Yours must be cleansed before you can move on."

"And who are you, to explain all this to me?"

My clone smiled. "I'm you, before you fell. Who better to guide you through your journey than the person you used to be?"

"I fell to _get away _from being you. I don't want to go back to that," I snapped, folding my arms over my chest, hating how much this past me was getting to me. The personification of my past life sighed, and around him twelve wings unfolded, spreading into the space around him, and I gasped. They were…burned. Blackened and dead, feathers falling off even as they were dipped towards the ground, as if they were too heavy to stay up. "Our wings…What happened to our wings?"

The past me blinked, and smiled in that infuriatingly serene way. "Things were hard on me after you fell."

That was all he said, his eyes suddenly glowing, and it was disconcerting, and unnerving, and I was aware of our surroundings suddenly darkening, the whiteness growing to grey growing to black. I looked around. "What's happening now?"

"We have to go. It's time to start and you have a long journey ahead," he replied, touching two fingers to my forehead, and I closed my eyes and we were _moving. _I could almost smile, thinking about the air through my feathers and around my wings, letting them cut through the air and carry me forward. I miss flying. I opened my eyes to see us chasing the light, my past self carrying me by my unmarked arm and flying, thousands upon thousands of burned, molting wings beating, pulsing more than actual flying as we continually surged forward. We were catching up with the light, and behind us things roared. I looked behind and around, seeing Hell hounds following us. The female and male that had kept me company were in the forefront, their fangs bared as they chased us. Whenever one of the Messenger's damaged feathers detached and fell from me, landing on one of them, they burst into flames and pillars of salt, but three more took their place. The darkness became their bodies, hunting us with single-minded intent, and my past self flew faster, faster, until the darkness was a blur and we were overtaking the light again. On the horizon was the green-orange glow of a sunrise and we were flying right into it – faster, faster, faster –

We burst through. The hounds howled and yelled out their defeat, trying to chase us and failing. I was suddenly aware of the sensation of weight, acting on me and my past self as we plummeted towards the ground. I looked up, and almost all of the feathers were gone, now, and we were falling, unable to catch the wind in our bare membrane. Plummeting down to the ground, which suddenly seemed very eager to meet us, and we kept falling.

There wasn't sound – I might have been screaming; might not have been. Everything was mute, and then there was _color, _bursting bright and loud with a trumpet fanfare. 'Hallelujah' from _Messiah _began to play, the demons' voices overtaken by something much more pure and much less sinister. I almost had to laugh at the cliché, and laughed harder when I found I could hear myself. I wasn't sure if I was laughing out of joy or hysteria.

I'm _so _going crazy.

The green horizon we had just passed through stretched out, bright and colored and turning into blues, and browns and yellows. Sky and desert and mountain, molding now, and growing as we fell over it. Trees rose up to meet us, slowing us down as we got snagged on the leafy branches, and rivers began to run from the mountains down to the trees, making them green and bright and vibrant. I got caught on one of the trees – a massive weeping willow that grew beside a giant lake – and fell, letting go of my past self in the hope of a cushioned landing in the water.

The lake was ice cold when I fell in, wrapping around me. I shivered and snapped my fingers, focusing my Grace to force the water warmer, and it changed into a much more pleasant temperature. I smiled to myself, glad to have my powers back finally, and dove down deep into the water. There were large fish in the lake – what looked like salmon and trout but I was no fish-master, and kept going, deeper, deeper…

All the fish suddenly scattered from me, whereas before they were gazing curiously my way, and I turned around, looking up to see myself diving for me, ferocious anger on his face. He grabbed my wrist, broken wings surrounding us and we _moved _again, this time faster than flight, and we were on the shore, clean and dry.

"You mustn't use your abilities!" he growled at me, pushing at me until I fell to the ground. "Every time you do you set yourself back."

"What in the name of our Father are you talking about?" I growled at him, rubbing the injury he'd dealt me on my wrist. Might have chipped the bone a little with his grip. Damn.

He rolled his eyes. "I've obviously gotten stupider since you fell," he growled, then opened his arms in a mockery of Christ, gesturing around him. "This is where you are to redeem yourself. You are lucky – most get far worse. Four miles from here you will find civilization, and there are troubles there. You must help them."

"How can I help them without my powers?" I asked, finally managing to grit my teeth and push myself to my feet. Pain really sucks when you can suddenly feel it.

The Messenger crossed his arms. "Be creative," he snapped. "And when you are fully redeemed, you will be able to leave."

"And how will I know? How do I know this isn't one giant trick altogether?" I demanded, anger rolling deep in my Grace at this smug bastard. "How long will I have to stay in here? Forever? This might not even be real! How can I know?"

He smirked at me, and cocked his head to one side. "Have faith, Gabriel."

Then his broken wings extended again, and he was flying away. "Damn you! This is why I fell!" But he was gone already, over the mountains, and couldn't hear me. "Fucking Angels with their fucking cryptic…Fuck!" I growled, kicking a stone away, and it landed with a wet 'plop' in a pile of mud. Fantastic.

There was nothing to do but walk. Apparently using my powers was a smite-worthy offense…from my past self (who's a real dick, and that's saying something, coming from me). There were large trees all around me, shading me from the sun, and I could pick up the sounds of small creatures scurrying around in what leaves had fallen. I looked around, hoping to come across some food, and found a bush full of berries that may or may not have been poisonous. But it stands to reason that if I was still an Archangel with all my phenomenal cosmic powers, despite the fact that I still had to eat and get tired and sweat (ew), I would be able to kill any poison that may or may not affect me.

This, as it turned out, was a very wrong assumption to make.

Reason, apparently, doesn't apply here.

Within fifteen minutes of eating the berries I'd had to throw up. Quite a lot, actually, considering I hadn't eaten in Father knows how long. It was tinged with red and what I thought was the result of the berries turned out to be blood. I grasped at my stomach, trying to hold it together. My body convulsed and I heaved again, dry-retching when there was nothing left to throw up. The ground became furrowed where my hand desperately clutched for purchase, and I finally subsided, coughing and wiping at my mouth with the bloodied back of my hand, spitting out that final bit that's always left behind.

I had to get to my feet, the smell just making my nausea worse, and stumbled towards the sound of running water. The stream that I came across was about a foot wide, filled with clear water that ran along sand and little rocks at the bottom, and I eagerly scooped some into my mouth. It felt _so _good, soothing the burn in my throat and I drank eagerly. The cold water hit my empty stomach and made me wince but I didn't care – I kept drinking, desperately trying to make up for days of human thirst.

Nearby, something moved, and I looked up to see a deer standing next to me, cocking its head to one side like Angels do. There was blackness in one eye, covered over with a scar – it had been blinded. Large, majestic horns curled out of its head, reaching up impossibly high for a creature that small, and almost rivaled the trees in height. It snorted, nostrils flaring as it looked me over with its one good eye, and then turned and began to walk away. It paused a few feet further down, looking back, ears forward and snorted again.

I got up and followed, sure that this creature had intended to find me, and was now leading me somewhere. After all, it's not like I had anywhere else to be.

The deer was soon joined by other animals. First came a doe – its mate, greeting the male with a soft nuzzle between their noses, and then another young buck that was the same size in body, but had half-pint horns that were a lighter shade than his father. The buck looked at me, and his right eye was glazed with silver, the other gold. Soon after other animals came to join – rabbits with absurdly long ears and great mounds of fur on their backs, and mice with long, prehensile tails that curled around my ankles and shoulders as they crawled up me and sat. A bright green snake with red eyes and a yellow belly slithered forward and rested on one of the lead deer's arching horns. Just out of the corner of my eye, I could see a bear that disappeared when I tried to look more closely.

I knew where we were.

Eden.

I was to spend Limbo in the Garden.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I had missed this Garden so much, filled with such beauty and serenity, that it had kept me in Heaven a lot longer than I would have stayed, its peace calming me when my Brothers' fighting got to be too much. But then they came there too, ravaging the loveliness and I'd lost my one last sanctuary, and fell. Limbo held Eden, a plain between Earth and Heaven, accessible only to Angels that were there at the first creation. You need an Archangel blade to get out.

Mine was still on Earth.

So I was definitely stuck here, cut off from any form of help until my past self (which I still hadn't decided was a figment of my imagination or not) deemed me ready to move on and go back to Heaven. It could be worse, I guess – I could still be out with the Hell hounds and the never-ending whiteness, where I could never be mortal enough to die or powerful enough to live in comfort.

Yes, it could be a Hell of a lot worse.

One by one, the animals left as they had arrived, finished with the stag's mate as she nuzzled him again, and then took off, bounding away with her son. The stag had stopped and I walked up to his shoulder, placing a hand on the light patch of fur there, and he turned to look at me, ears forward and his good eye winking, before we continued on, just him and I.

We kept walking, birdsong floating high above us as I caught glimpses of the bright, little creatures flitting every which way. It was bittersweet, seeing the freedom I used to take for granted, for without my wings I was now grounded. The stag tilted his head to watch them also, his curved horns almost digging their spikes into his back and neck, and we kept walking, the sun setting quickly behind us until it was nightfall.

The stag stopped us, turning his head so a horn blocked my path, and pawed at the muddy ground below us, and I sat. He left and returned, bearing a mass of berries in his mouth. They weren't, luckily, the ones I had puked up before – these looked large and ripe and sweet, and when I bit into them they tasted of a mix between blackberries and strawberries, glazed in honey. It was divine. The stag grazed nearby as I sat in the gathering darkness, eating, and when I was finished he pushed at me with a hind leg until I stood again and led me to water, which I eagerly drank.

Sated, my eyes growing heavy from the stress of however long I'd spent in the whiteness before I came here, I looked around for a place to sleep. The stag flared his nostrils, lying down with his forelegs curled underneath him, hind-legs stretching out to the side. He lay on his side, baring the soft, lighter color of his underbelly and rested his head, horns stretched far out behind him. I took the invitation for what it was, for the air was getting colder without the sun, and I lay down next to the giant animal's body heat, lulled to sleep by its regular breathing and booming heart.

_God appeared to me again. I had smashed some of the pillars, but whenever I did three more rose up in their place. I was getting desperate, lashing out with my arms and my wings, shattering thousands of them with my power, but I couldn't get ahead of their numbers._

"_What are you doing, my son?" He asked, His loud booming voice vibrating the ground I stood on._

_I whirled on Him, desperate, pleading; "Father! Please, please help me! I can't…there're too many, and I can't get ahead of them. Please, please tell me how. Please…" I fell to my knees, head bowed, shoulders shaking, because if I couldn't get rid of all the pillars, I would never be let home. I would be stuck here forever._

_I felt His power move, and there was a hand on my shoulder, my Father solidifying into the form of Jesus Christ as He stood before me, raising my face to meet His. He was smiling. "My son," He said, shaking His head with that same serene, indulgent smile He always wore. "You are not thinking clearly. I will never have led you astray. I will never turn my back on you. Take as long as you need; I'll be waiting."_

_And He began to withdraw again, and I reached out, trying desperately to cling onto His robe. "No, Father, please! Please, don't leave me here!" But He was vanishing, fading from my side, and the multitudes of my army were advancing on me again. "Mercy, Father!"_

"_Have faith, Gabriel."_

"_No…" I tried backing away, but the hordes of pillars kept advancing, growing faces and arms that reached out and clawed at me. I recognized some of them…victims. Victims of _me. _People I had punished out of my sense of righteousness and justice – people who were dead now, because of what I had done. They snarled and growled and pursued me as I ran, trying to flee but they were there on all sides, closing in… "Leave me alone! Father, help me!"_

"_I love you, Gabriel."_

I woke in a cold sweat, the stag's breathing heavy on my face. It was watching me, its good eye winking, and rose up once I'd gotten my bearings, standing on its elegant limbs. It looked at me again with its one black eye, winked once more, and started walking. I either had to catch up or risk being left behind.

I followed the stag for several hours, tired and worn by the end of it – this was _not _the place where my past self had told me to go, that was for certain. He'd said it was only four miles away. The stag was leading me somewhere else. The sun rose in our faces, bright and blinding, and the stag leaned forward so that its horns fell across its eye, providing shade for it to see and not get blinded. I envied that, having to use my hand to shade my eyes.

The forest started to grow less thick, now, the trees parting and becoming bigger, older, chestnuts and oak leaves littering the floor and crunching when we stepped on them. The stag slowed its pace, letting me rest for a while by another stream, and I drank water absently while taking in our surroundings. It was the stuff of books – what Tolkien glimpsed before writing about Murk Wood. The trees grew tall and wide, spreading out their velvet jade and coloring the air below it a serene, tranquil silver-green color, complimenting their thick trunks and stretching limbs. I watched, entranced by the beauty of Eden I had never really forgotten, as a hummingbird flitted over to a large pink flower, open to the sunlight and heavy with nectar and pollen. The bird dipped its nose in, feeding from the flower, which seemed to curl its petals in towards the bird, shielding it from sight while it fed, in such a vulnerable position to predators. My Father's harmony and love was a physical thing in this place, and I felt relaxed and safe for the first time in a long time.

The stag's ear cocked as a howl sounded from far away. A wolf, rising up a terrible noise as it howled as though in pain. The stag's nostrils flared, its ears going back, and it shifted on its hooves, legs trembling with the urge to run. I stood, ready to have to chase my guide should he flee, but the stag didn't run _away _from the wolf – he ran towards the sound. Bewildered, I followed, just managing to keep up with the creature's long stride. I managed to keep him in my sight the whole way until we came upon the wolf. He was a giant, with a pelt the color of sand, panting and bleeding on the forest floor. Wherever his blood fell, tiny sparks of grass began to shoot up, soaking up the blood and growing higher, higher, until it began to envelop the wolf, to drag it into the ground for another cycle of life and death.

The stag was having none of it – it tore at the grass with its teeth and its antlers, tearing at the new springs to stop the wolf getting swallowed. The grass rose up, hissing like a snake, and attacked, and I abruptly realized how the stag had gotten blinded, before, as the grass tore, whip-like, at its flanks and legs, trying to tangle it up and bring it down with the wolf.

I knew it would set me back, and that I wasn't allowed, but I had to try anyway – I reached a hand forward, digging for my Grace and my powers, and pushed forward with a devastating wind, tearing the grass from its roots with the force of my will and making it fall away from the wind. As the grass rose, still hissing, a great bird flew by and caught all the pieces in its talons, screeched loudly, and continued on its way.

Looking back, the stag was sniffing at the wolf, who was opening giant hazel-green eyes, blinking as though it wasn't quite sure it was still alive or not. I knew the feeling. The stag bent its head, nudging at the wolf's shoulder with its wet nose, and the animal was pushed to its feet at the stag's insistence, the animal refusing to let the wolf collapse again.

When they were both standing, the wolf's head came up to the stag's shoulder. The wolf made a small sound in the back of its throat, between a mewl and a growl, and licked at one of the wounds on the stag's leg. Then, the two animals fixed their gazes on me, and I was overwhelmed with the sense of…familiarity. Like I knew them from somewhere – like I had met them before. The wolf blinked its giant hazel eyes again, and limped forward, favoring its left foreleg, and pressed its jaw into my still-outstretched hand. His jaw was strong, the bone and tendons around it flexing under my hold, covered in the softest pelt I had ever touched. I stroked my fingers through the scruff at his neck, earning a contented little half-purr, and the stag nudged on my shoulder, jerking its head when I turned to look at it. It was time to keep going.

I expected the wolf to leave us, or continue as he had been before he'd been injured, but no – he stayed. He took up a position on my left side, the stag leading me by my right, and the parody of the company the Hell hounds had been almost made me laugh. This was _so _much better than blankness and Hell hounds and _nothingness. _I felt at home for the first time in a very, very long time, and I couldn't help but feel the presence of my Father in these two animals, who were now my guardians and guides, and even though I wanted to go home, I knew that this place could also be pretty damn close, if I let it.

We walked on, through the forest until it thinned out completely and became…a beach. I stopped, wary somewhat of the massive expanse of water stretching before me, and unwilling to remember just exactly what had happened – and the terror I'd felt – the last time I'd been near a sea, but the wolf nudged at my legs and the stag bent his head, and I walked forward, encouraged and unwilling to believe that these animals would have led me all the way here just so I could die…again. (Sort of.)

I bent down, taking off my shoes and socks and rolling up my jeans to below the knee, reveling in the feeling of sand beneath my toes, digging into the dunes with my feet, feeling the coarseness of the millions of fine grains brushing against my skin. Next to my foot was a brightly-colored seashell, blue and opal and pearlescent, and I picked it up. It was about the size of a silver dollar, easily held in my palm, and I smiled, looking out into the water again and replacing the shell where I had found it. I began to walk along the beach, the shadows of my companions at my side.

The wolf howled, and I whirled around, alarmed. He howled again, ears forward and eyes sparking with inner joy and light, and I followed his gaze, to where the water rose up in a giant wave. I stepped back, afraid of it for a moment that it might swallow me up, and out of the foam a horse was shaped. It was pure white, flecked with grey along its muzzle and down the right foreleg, ending in hooves the color of the deepest ocean. Its eyes were bright blue also, shining like the cloudless sky, and when the wave crashed down the horse was soaked, drenched into a darker color as it took the momentum of the wave, cantering up onto the beach and towards the wolf, who barked, its tail wagging fiercely.

The stag dipped his head as the horse approached with a toss of its regal head, and reared up. Lighting flashed behind it as it did so, and I stepped back again as the stallion's eyes darkened to the color of a thundercloud, nostrils flared, huge and pink as it lashed out with a hoof towards the open air. There was a cry of an eagle overhead, and I looked up, seeing the giant bird fighting with a bolt of lightning that never touched ground. Eventually the lightning struck the bird at the stallion's will, causing it to burst into flames, and it fell.

As I watched the bird begin to plummet, a slave to gravity, the stag nudged me with its great head, and the wolf whined and jerked its head in the falling bird's direction. When I looked at the stallion, his eyes were on me too, now back to the original lightness in his eyes, and copied the wolf, tossing his head in the direction of the defeated creature.

I ran forward, just managing to catch the bird before its blackened wings touched sand. As I held it, the skin around its eyes began to heal, and the burned feathers began to fall away. I was reminded horribly of the image of my past self, shedding and molting from damage to his wings. The eagle would have been beautiful and golden before the lightning struck her, and I watched as her skin healed over, but her wings did not. She was bald – quite literally.

I held her in my arms, and the stallion came closer, breathing onto her newly exposed skin. She shivered, and squawked out a raucous cry, struggling in my arms but too weak to do anything, really. Her talons lay curled towards her stomach.

"Shh," I said, for want of anything else _to _say. The stallion nickered, his ears pitched forward, and breathed on her again. A single feather began to grow in at the base of her neck. "What the Hell is going on, eh?" I asked, to no one in particular.

From nowhere, I was overwhelmed by a powerful presence. I gasped, almost dropping the eagle, and instead cradled her to my chest, her beak digging into my throat. The waves grew, wind picking up from the horizon that didn't really exist and blowing the water towards the five of us, chilling me to the bone. Without a sound the wolf stood in front of me, taking the brunt of the wind while the stallion took a side, the stag the other, but they couldn't block out the _voice…_

"_Everything redeemed is a feather on the Eagle's wings. When it flies, you may leave." _Over and over on a loop this voice repeated, growing softer with each passing loop as though outwards ripples on water, until it was silent again. I stroked at the bird's single feather, reveling in its softness – like the down on a newborn Angel – and smiled, setting it on my shoulder. The talons dug in slightly to keep her perch, but I didn't feel the pain, and I stood up again, the stag, wolf and stallion watching me with intelligent eyes.

I turned to the stag. "I'm meant to go somewhere," I said, remembering what my past self had told me – if I had to redeem myself, and then it would be a lot easier around people…theoretically. "A settlement. Do you know where that is?" All the animals in Eden could understand Enochian – the original language – and the stag nodded his great head, the wolf wagged his tail, and the stallion's ears perked up. The stag turned, and I began to follow, leaving the beautiful waves and the seashore behind.

After several miles and another meal of those fat, sweet berries, we came across a child. She had fallen at some point and now was crying, cradling an injured knee to her chest and stifling sobs. It looked like the fall had also damaged her wrist, which was swollen and bruised and almost twice the size of her other one.

The animals stayed back as I crept forward, the eagle hop-gliding onto the wolf's back to perch. I walked up to the little girl and knelt in front of her, and she raised her eyes to mine. They were wide and blue, her hair the brightest flaxen yellow I'd ever seen, almost to the point of being silver, and her skin was very pale, cheeks flushed from crying. She shied away from me when I reached a hand out, placing my palm over her uninjured forearm.

"Mia culpa," I said to her, and if I still had them my wings would be curving forward, sheltering her in their mass. I'd always had a soft spot for children – I _was _the Archangel of Incarnation and Birth, after all – and I hated to see children crying. Especially innocents such as this one; "How did you hurt yourself?"

She looked down, bottom lip quivering as she tried to hold back the fresh round of tears. "I fell," she replied, sounding sullen. I almost smiled.

"I see that. Where are your parents, little one?"

She pointed back behind her, along the path where I had been traveling. I followed her gaze. "I see. Can you walk? Get up?" She shook her head stubbornly, and I sighed again. I had been forbidden to use my powers, but what could one little healing spell hurt? I touched my palm gently to her wrist, the other over her knee, and closed my eyes, pushing outward with my now fully-revived Grace. My fingertips burned, light going off behind my eyes as I told her wounds to heal and the pain to go away. By the time I was finished she'd stopped crying, looking at me with wide-eyed wonder, then I heard a shriek.

I turned around in time to see the eagle burst into flames, wings arching up high over itself like it was trying to take flight. The wolf, stag and stallion watched on dispassionately as the bird became ashes and fell to the ground. I stood up, worried over what the Hell had just happened, before the ashes…_moved. _A small beak pushed up out of the ashes, disturbing them until they fell into wings again, and the bare eagle rose again, this time without the feather on its neck.

A blank slate and another feather I would have to replace.

Well. Damn.

I held my hand out for the little girl, smiling as she used it to pull herself to her feet, and looked at the giant animals warily, hiding behind my leg as the stag came forward, lowering its head to sniff at her with his big, bright wet nose. She shied away, her grip tightening on my hand as she gave a little whine of distress.

"Hey, hey...Mia," I said, bending down and picking her up, cradling her to my chest. "He isn't anything to be scared of." I grinned at the stag, reaching forward and petting between his eyes. The stag blinked its good eye at me as the child watched. "He's all big and scary," I continued to her in a whisper, like sharing the secrets of the universe as the legends say I do, and she grinned back at me, all missing front teeth and chubby cheeks. "He's a big old softy, really. Kinda like someone else I know." I broke off, musing to myself as I looked back on the stag. "Ain'tcha, Sammy?"

"Sammy," the girl repeated, nodding at the name. The stag winked at her once, dipping its great head for her to pet, and I smiled.

"Yep, Sammy the big friendly giant. And this…" I added, carrying the girl over to the stallion, whose nostrils flared widely and the great horse shifted, looking like he didn't know what to do with himself, like – "is Castiel." The stallion's bright blue eyes certainly reminded me of my Brother's vessel, and the pure white, tainted with just a little bit of grey around the edges, reminded me of Castiel's damaged Grace, when I had first seen him after rescuing Dean Winchester from Hell. "You can call him 'Cas', though – he really doesn't mind."

"Cas," she repeated again, tugging at the stallion's top lip lightly. The horse snorted, ears forward as its nostrils flared again, sniffing at the girl like she was some weird alien. I felt a small nip on the back of my calf, and turned to my final companion.

"Which makes you Dean, by default," I said, grinning at the wolf as it wagged its tail with all the enthusiasm of a newly-bought puppy. I laughed; "I knew you loved me really, Dean-o," I said, setting the little girl down again as she greeted the wolf, throwing her arms around his neck as he rumbled a little purr deep in his chest. "Big softie," I teased gently, suddenly overwhelmed with homesickness – or at least, Earth-sickness. Father helped me; I missed those two idiotic Brothers and their faithful lap-Angel. When I got back to Heaven I would definitely see if I could get a little more R&R on the big blue planet. Probably not – I don't really know what happens for Angels when they die, completely. I'd have thought I would get to go home…but what if I left Eden and there was just nothing? It's a scary thought, and I pushed it away before it could worry me more.

"Elena! Elena!" I looked up suddenly, as did the girl and the animals, to see a middle-aged woman running towards us on the path. She grabbed at the little girl, tearing it away from the wolf. "What are you doing? You had us worried sick! Who are you?" That last one was directed at me, along with a glare that would have shaken me if I were anything less than an Archangel.

"My name is Gabriel," I said, then gestured to the animals. "These are my friends. I was sent to help you."

"We don't need help from the likes of you," she spat, and I don't recall anyone living in Eden being so…hostile. Times have definitely changed.

"And what like am I?"

"Demons."

I almost laughed at her. "Lady, I ain't no demon. I just healed your daughter," I paused, gesturing to the girl – Elena. "And I was sent to help the rest of you. I need to be here."

She hesitated, her daughter held protectively behind her as she eyed me up, clear distrust in her expression, before she nodded once – a short, sharp gesture, and turned around. "Come on then. Let's go, and see if you can really help."

Okay…so far so…moderate. I sent a little prayer up to my Father for patience, because I had a feeling I was going to be here for a _long _time. I eventually learned that the woman's name was Rebecca, and she lived with her daughter, her husband, and her three sons – one family among several dozen that had located themselves at the base of a large, heavily forested hill – not that all of Eden wasn't heavily forested anyway. As we walked, I caught sight of the crater that God had ordered me to create, that had once held the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. I was ordered to destroy it after Adam and Eve had been sent to Earth, so that Eden could be reopened – so to speak – and became a kind of purgatory for the more deserving of sinners.

Hey, I didn't make up the system.

So I'd blasted a crater a mile wide in that place, destroying it so no life could grow. That was millennia ago, but you could still see the stump where the tree used to be. It had been beautiful – so green and bright all year round, and the apples were the largest and sweetest anyone had ever known, and it stretched out and up, so tall, like 'Home Tree' in _Avatar. _

Okay, so maybe I'd stepped in a little for inspiration on that. I _had _been the last to see the tree, after all.

Elena was wriggling in her mother's grasp, continually looking around until finally she got free and ran towards me, where I held back a few feet to give her ranting mother some space. Rebecca shouted for her daughter but she wouldn't listen, and I scooped up the little girl in my arms, grinning when she poked at my forehead curiously, muttering something under her breath.

"Elena! Get back here right now!" Rebecca growled, storming up to me, and I held my hand out.

"She's perfectly fine right here," I said, plainly, but with enough of a threat in it that she knew it would be in her best interests to back off. The woman subsided with a low growl, glaring at me until we kept on walking. The settlement came into view, and Elena wriggled out of my arms again, running towards the nearest log cabin, built out of sycamore and pine and covered with beeswax to keep it water tight. Dried grass mixed with mud lined the top of the house, and there was a hole in the middle with a small chimney-like border to keep out the weather and let out the smoke from cooking fires.

The woman led me into the cabin behind her daughter, the stag, wolf and stallion hanging back within the shadows of the trees, the eagle dozing on the stallion's back, and I ascended two steps until the darkness of the cabin. I found that I had to wait for my eyes to adjust, and wondered just how human I was in this place. Could I die here? Get old?

"Is that my girls?" came a voice – an old, worn out voice that might have been a grandfather or older member of the family. Elena squealed, grinned and ran into another room. "Hey, sweetheart…" And then, coughing. The worst I'd ever heard – and I'd been around in the time of the Great Plague – followed by the wet sound of someone spitting up blood. I looked at the woman, horrified and confused.

She was smiling, forced and bitter. "If you really are here to help us, Gabriel, I would that you would start with him." Then, she gestured through the room, where Elena had run to, and I entered the second room, which held two beds and a fire. One bed was occupied with a thin frame covered by a slightly thicker blanket, back turned towards the fire so that he faced into the room. Elena was wiping blood from his mouth with the corner of a cloth. She was chatting about a strange man in the woods with the power to heal, and who the animals followed, and I almost smiled at the child-like awe I had once been the inspiration of. It's been a long time since I was that person – one to be revered instead of feared.

The man blinked, coughed once, and then looked in my direction. His eyes were milky white – cataracts – and his skin was sallow and yellowed. He might have liver disease, or some sort of cancer. Either way, there was next to no hope of him recovering through natural means. Which means the only way I would be able to help him was with my powers…which would mean any good deeds I'd done would burn the eagle.

But I hadn't gained another feather since healing Elena and now. I didn't have anything to lose.

I walked forward, kneeling by the old man. Behind me I could feel Rebecca's gaze burning into the back of my head as I placed my hand on his forehead, focusing on him. The man's body was ravaged by disease – almost all of his major organs were failing. He didn't have long.

For me, it wasn't much of a choice between saving him or letting another feather grow.

I focused my Grace, pulsing into him and through his body, healing damaged tissue and getting rid of any foul substances. The tumor that was pressing into his brain – though benign – I removed, drawing it out of his body, and I repaired his liver and kidneys, as well as the tear in his intestinal wall. Even as I healed him I felt his body temperature lowering, calming once I'd removed his fever, and his skin became a much healthier color, and the murkiness in front of his eyes faded away. He blinked at me through clear blue eyes, and smiled, and I think it was definitely worth the trade.

Outside, I could hear the eagle burst into flames again.

"Oh, God!" Rebecca cried, running forward as the man sat up and throwing her arms around him. Her eyes were clouded with tears, her expression one of such staggering relief that for a moment, I didn't know what to do with myself. I stepped away, smiling as Elena tugged on my finger and grinned up at me. "Thank you, thank you…" I looked back to Rebecca, who was watching me now, still crying tears of joy. I nodded, shifting back again. It had been a long time since someone _thanked _me for something I'd done. I thought I had left this part of myself behind.

Elena giggled happily, tugging on my finger again and pulling outside with the kind of strength only overeager children can achieve, and I followed, figuring I had done my work for now. Outside I saw the eagle, perched on a pole in the middle of a circle of tents that went up to about my head and held up pieces of clothing for drying. The bird didn't have a single feather on it, and there was a pile of ashes around the pole. I swallowed back the sense that I might not actually get out of here, if I was forbidden to use my powers, but all the good deeds required them.

The little girl ran up to another pair of women, chattering excitedly, too fast for me to try following. She was pointing back at me wildly, brandishing her arm as though possessed (you know, in the old fashioned sense when possessed people brandished things and flailed) and smiling. One of the women – younger, about Sam's age with long black hair that fell to her waist and skin the color of olives – was watching Elena with a kind of mild-mannered indulgence, while the other kept waving her off, muttering something to herself. She reminded me of the psychic, Missouri Mosely, with her no-nonsense attitude and the quick, efficient way she beat the rug hanging on one of the strings with a large stick, ridding it of dust. I kind of felt mildly threatened, even standing so far away from her.

"And then he touched grandpa and boom! He was all healed," Elena finished, throwing her arms out to her sides and grinning again.

"Did he now?" the younger woman replied mildly, straightening out a reddish shirt hanging on another rope. "Is grandpa all better?" Her tone clearly suggested that she merely thought the child's grandfather had passed away, and this was just another tale you told young people – 'They've gone to a better place' and all that shit.

"Victoria! Sarah! You've got to come quickly!" Rebecca yelled, running out of her cabin, blonde hair flying about her face. "He's healed! Daniel's healed!" The women looked at each other, eyes wide with wonder and maybe thinking that the mother too had gone mad, when the man himself walked out of the cabin.

"Praise the Lord!" they cried, running to him – Daniel. I felt a little shiver go through my Grace at the prayers, that I always felt when someone directed love and adoration to my Father. It was one of the things that had stopped me going completely dark-side – even after leaving Heaven, I felt all those prayers and praises, and it kept me sane. "Daniel! Daniel!" They ran to him, embracing him, and he hugged his daughter, granddaughter and neighbors, looking to me with eyes shining so brightly in gratitude that, again, I didn't know what to do with myself. I stepped back a little, nodding and folding my arms over my chest, before I felt warm air blowing across the side of my neck. I turned around to see my animal friends watching me.

"Heya, Sammy," I said, greeting the stag and stroking his soft, wet nose gently. The animal winked at me. I looked at the others; "Dean. Cas." The wolf barked and the stallion, typically, said nothing, but shifted his weight, ears forward. The eagle spread her bare wings, not a single feather on her body, and I sighed again. "Looks like I'm gonna have to start again."

The stallion nudged me gently with his velvet nose, nickering before nudging at my shoulder again, forcing me to turn around. I was greeted with the sight of practically the entire settlement, all staring with wide-eyed wonder at me and my companions. Elena ran forward, ever the eager one, and tugged at my leg.

"You aren't leaving, are you, Angel?" she asked, voice high and questioning, just bordering on hesitant. "Don't leave us yet."

I blinked, because no one had called me 'Angel' in a long time without hatred, disgust or fear. It was nice, like hearing prayers…I felt it in my Grace, my vessel, and even my non-existent wings shivered in the pleasure of it. I smiled down at her, crouching. "No, sweetheart, I'm not leaving. Not yet," I replied, stroking some of her flaxen hair from her face, and she giggled in a high-pitched voice, blushing slightly.

"Come on, then," she said as I rose again, tugging on a finger. "We have others you can heal. Please, please will you help them? They are very sick."

I had just enough time to wonder how anyone got sick in Eden, before I was whisked off again by Elena's child-like energy and strength, dragged every which-way around the settlement and shown many different cases of illnesses and disabilities. Some people were missing limbs; others were suffering from cholera or fever, or an infected cut. Almost half of the village seemed to be suffering in one form or another. I worked all day, and cured what I could through natural means. I knew every herb and plant that grew in Eden, and knew the properties of each one. I sent undamaged men, women and children out to gather the plants I needed that I could make into salves for infected wounds, cutting them open to let out the poison and the blood and pus that had gathered, and wrapping it anew to let it heal naturally. I avoided my powers as much as I could, and kept looking to the eagle, hoping to see a few feathers growing on her neck or wings.

None came. I healed all the ones that required the use of my powers first, restoring limbs and curing cancers and terminal illnesses, while the slate was still clean and I could lose nothing from it, before moving onto things that I could only help along in the healing process. People with fevers found them broken, people with infected cuts and the bites of animals; I cured, letting all the poisons out. I did everything and anything I could, for once in my life happy and accepted and given something to do. I was never without a task and it kept my mind off my situation, for a while.

By the end of the day even I was tired, and hungry. The women of the settlement brought me a leg of lamb and some more of the delicious berries that the stag had fed me twice, along with herbs that tasted vaguely of parsley and another that was like Eden's salt. I ate eagerly, washing it down with water and a wine distilled from the berries, which was sweet and rich and quenched my thirst very effectively. They fed my companions, too, giving hay and grasses to the horse and stag, and another leg of lamb to the wolf, which tore off some pieces to give to the eagle as well, so that all were fed and sated by the end of the day.

I was just about ready to fall asleep when I felt Elena tugging on my jacket. I looked up to her, seeing her eyes bright but tired. "You're not going to leave us, are you, Angel?" she asked, cocking her head to one side. "You'll stay, won't you?"

I almost smiled at her, but was too tired to. "Of course, sweetheart. I'll stay a while."

"Okay," she said, smiling more brightly this time, and skipped off to the house, let in by her mother, who nodded at me and closed the door. I wasn't offended that she didn't offer me a place to sleep – honestly, I felt more at home curled up next to the stag's belly, my head pillowed on the wolf's broad back, than I would have in there.

_Although no feathers had grown on the eagle, the pillars were almost completely gone. I looked around, astounded, for only a few dozen remained where before there had been thousands. I looked towards my Father, who stood in the visage of one of His Prophets – Chuck Shirley._

"_Father?" I asked, confused, looking around, because I knew what these pillars represented now – my sins. All of them, and I was here to purge them…but the eagle wasn't growing feathers. Surely the same thing applied here? "I don't understand."_

"_Look closely, my son," He replied, still smiling slightly, and I tried – I did – but I couldn't see what He wanted me to see. "You know what the truth is. You know your place is not here. Stop living in lies, Gabriel."_

"_I don't understand, Father – I am doing what you told me to!"_

"_Not I, my son," He replied again, shaking His head. "Not I."_

"_Then who?" I demanded, angry at my Father for playing these games with me. "Who?"_

_He smiled again, turning and beginning to walk away. I didn't even try to chase Him, knowing that my decimated army would hold me back. I didn't call for Him – not this time. I was still winning…slowly, but surely, I was getting closer to home._

I wasn't meant to stay here any longer. I'd come and done what I was meant to do – it was time to move on, to try and earn my feathers elsewhere. I was ready to go, having no belongings and no one except my animal friends, and was up to leave right after dawn.

Elena was already on the path, waiting for me and barring my way. "Let me through, little one," I said to her, gently.

"No! You promised you would stay," she said, voice low and growling, and I stepped back, wary at the sudden change that had come over the little girl. My wings shivered around me, and my Grace lurched, and she stepped forward. "You promised you would stay with us, Angel. Why don't you keep your promises? Always promising, never delivering – that's you, Gabriel."

That was the first time she had ever called me by my name. My Grace shivered again, and for a moment, everything was in perfect clarity. The girl's visage fell away, revealing the face of a demon, with its twisted features, snarling mouth filled with jagged teeth, and black eyes. She lunged at me, and I managed to dodge her just in time, lashing out with my Grace so that she was sent several yards to the left of me. She was on her feet again in an instant, neck broken but still standing, snarling at me, fingers curled like claws.

I knew everything, then, for that split second. The demon had come into this settlement, making everyone sick – luring me in, but not getting me any closer to my goal. The eagle burst into flames again behind me as I sent out my Grace to battle with the demon, sure that I could be able to cast it back into the Pit in no trouble at all.

But it wasn't that simple. She reached out; her hand a mimic of Sam's when he'd had his powers, closing her fist slightly. I felt like I was choking – that my _Grace_ was choking – and fell to my knees, unable to get enough air, suddenly. I couldn't move, couldn't fight – this demon was way more powerful than I'd anticipated. Had I fallen that far, or was she that high-level? I hadn't met someone who was my better since my Brothers.

My vision was darkening, my Grace shuddering within me as it withdrew out of a sense of survival, and I was coughing, choking on blood and my own swollen muscles as she kept closing her fist, still muttering 'You shouldn't have tried to leave'.

Then, suddenly, the pain was gone. I inhaled greedily, deeply, drinking in the air with the kind of desperation that only those close to death can understand. I was still coughing up blood, feeling my vessel's ruptured and burst lungs filling up with it, spilling out of my mouth. I spared a little bit of Grace to heal myself, and then looked up to see the little girl impaled on the stag's horns. He'd charged forward and speared her with them, and she flopped like some macabre rag doll on top of his horns now, sinking down to his head and painting them bloody. The wolf came forward and grabbed at the girl's body, tearing her piece by piece from his horns until only tiny bits of flesh and blood remained. I fought back the urge to vomit, unsure if that girl had been a demon all along or only possessed recently, but I still felt sick, seeing a child die because of me.

I turned away, just managing to drop to my knees before I had to throw up, bile rising thick and hot in my gut. Father…she had _died. _Why? Why was this happening? "I've done everything You asked for," I growled, wiping at my mouth and spitting out what little blood and bile remained; "I've followed Your orders, helped them, healed them – I've been a good son." I got up, turning my head towards the stupidly bright, clear morning sky, now only just tinged with red and yellow from the sunrise. "What more do you want?" I yelled, aware of the eyes of Sam, Dean and Castiel on me, watching and waiting.

'_Not I, my son…'_

Not him. I looked around, sure of more than the animals' eyes on me. "Gabriel," I growled, suddenly sure that he was here, watching me. "Show yourself, you son of a bitch!"

"I was wondering when you'd call for me." I turned around, seeing the 'past me' sitting on the top of a large oak, looking at his nails and looking significantly less regimental than before. He smiled down at me, that Trickster's smirk that I had learned to adopt in my first few years of Earth life, and dropped down to the ground. "Had enough? Ready to die?"

"I can't die here," I said, backing away, no longer so sure of that fact.

"Of course you can," he replied, drawing his hand through the air so that suddenly he was gripping a blade – _my blade – _tightly in his left hand, holding it so the blade ran back along his forearm. "Everyone can die here. Just look at that little girl you killed."

I choked, swallowing back that nausea again at the thought of it. "I didn't…" Then, my eyes zeroed in on the blade. That was _my _blade. The sword of the Archangel Gabriel. I could recognize it from the faint thread of Grace that tied me to it at all times. There's only one in existence, regardless of past and future selves…and the only one that existed was next to my dead body at the Elysian Fields motel. That wasn't me holding it – and I had never been left-handed – and the only person that could have it was – "Lucifer."

The past me smirked, his face shimmering again for just a moment, until it fell to revealed the rotting and burned face of Nick, my Brother's current vessel. I backed away from him, eyes warily fixed on my blade as he advanced.

"I'm sorry for this, Brother, but I couldn't have you destroying me from the inside," he said, flourishing my sword.

"How did you even get here?" I asked, stalling, trying to buy some time to come up with a plan as I backed away from him, trying to put trees and rocks in between us for some cover. The animals remained unmoving, and I wondered briefly if they were part of his illusion too. "Are you dead also?"

Lucifer shook his head. "You learned all your tricks from me, Gabriel, but you didn't learn all of mine. _I _cannot die here, as I am not really here. You, however," he said, pausing as he lashed out and narrowly avoided my chest as I jumped back, managing to get away with just a glancing blow to my arm, "can."

…_Shit. _No wonder my Father had been trying to warn me. All of it, just some clever illusion, but even Lucifer couldn't mimic the feeling and song of my Father's voice. Even he couldn't intervene with God's will. I almost smiled, distracted enough that the butt of my sword caught me around the shoulder and I was sent flying. I pushed myself to my feet quickly, not sparing a thought for pain as I tried to heal myself as I ran, unable to fly and no longer caring for the eagle that was meant to be my ticket out of here. It was plain now that that was never going to be the answer.

Lucifer followed quickly, keeping to the human pace of his vessel instead of flying – could he not fly here too? I hoped so, because that was my only advantage. I knew this Garden better than he did – better than anyone did – and the home advantage was the only one I had. He may have created the people in it, but Lucifer cannot create the Garden so accurately. I would have found him out sooner.

I ran, and I heard him following behind me, and cursed the fact that his vessel was so much taller than mine, able to gain ground more quickly than I was able to. I ran towards the mountains, through the forests, hoping to lose him in their confusing thickness. I had to think of something, fast, to be able to get out of here, or kill the illusion – _something._

Still running, I heard powerful hoof-beats behind me, and looked to see the stag, horse and wolf following, gaining ground. The stallion ran in front of me, tossing his head before he dipped his shoulder, and I jumped on, using the momentum to pull me upright and grabbed a huge, thick chunk of his white man, urging him on. I tell you, I'm glad I'm an Angel and we have a phenomenal sense of balance, because I'd never ridden a horse in my existence…but a headlong gallop for survival sure is a quick way to learn.

I'm not recommending it for humans.

The stag and the wolf kept stride with us, and I looked behind me as I heard Lucifer's roar of rage, knowing that I was getting away. Then his yell was accompanied by the howls of Hell hounds…_Fuck. _Hell hounds…they're fast. Possibly faster than we could go. The stallion was having trouble, being born of the water, maneuvering as quickly as he could through the dense forests. The stag had to pause and look back, able to catch up with us quickly and make sure we weren't being followed too closely.

One Hell hound managed to get around and in front of us, growling and snapping at the stallion's heels. He didn't last long against the stag's horns, sinking down on them, his black blood covering the dried red of the demon child's. I shook that thought away.

They were gaining fast. We weren't going fast enough, and eventually the stallion had to stop, breathing hard, his flanks soaked through with sweat. I got off, knowing that he was at the end of his run, and the stag abruptly stepped forward, dipping his shoulder in much the same way. I got on, using the carcass of the Hell hound around his horns for leverage, and then threw the body onto the ground as he straightened. His back was narrower; a lot less forgiving on my vessel, but his body was rounded perfectly to grip onto, his legs already shifting in preparation to run. I noticed the wolf and stallion made no such move.

They were going to stay.

"Wait!" I called, as the stag made to keep running, and the other animals looked at me, ears forward. "Thank you," I said, knowing that they were about to do – they would stay, and fight, and slow the hounds down. I couldn't be grateful enough for that, and just for a second – in the cocky snarl-grin of the wolf, and the intelligent nod of the stallion's head, I saw my friends. I saw Dean and Castiel, and knew they were with me as Sam began to run again, bearing me away to safety.

Sam was _fast. _His long legs covered ground easily, and though he only had one eye, and therefore no depth perception, it didn't affect his stride whatsoever. He ran towards the mountains, galloping as fast as he could and I gripped his horns, holding on tightly with my legs as he sped towards the mountain.

I knew where he was taking me. The Gate.

He was taking me to the Gate, where I could get out…with the blade of an Archangel.

I would have to meet my Brother there, and fight him, and take the blade and get out.

Smart animal.

I petted through his sweaty neck as he ran, Hell hounds growling as they met the resistance of Dean and Castiel, and I smiled as I heard more than one of them howl and cry out in the pain of death. I knew Dean and Castiel wouldn't last forever, but they were going long enough. Sam kept running, never faltering once as I became used to his leaping gate, able to relax slightly and let him open up under me, and this is as close to flying I've ever come since I died.

The Gate is a large cave-like opening, set into the side of the mountain half way up its side. The blade slides in directly into the center and the door will open for long enough so that the Angel can slip out, and then retrieve his blade from the other side. I somehow had to get the blade from my Brother and get out without him following or killing me. I didn't have high hopes.

Behind me I heard the pained howl that _wasn't _a hound, but Dean – he'd fallen, or gotten injured somehow. I wanted to go back and help him, but that would just mean his sacrifice was in vain. I sighed and urged Sam on faster, the stag leaping forward under my hold, head stretched out as he ran.

He reared up suddenly, and I looked up, seeing vines coming down and wrapping around his horns, holding him still and stopping our escape. He bucked and reared and I just managed to keep my balance. Desperate, not seeing any other option, I reached up and used my supernatural strength to rip his horns out and let them fall prey to the vines, which wrapped around them and pulled them up into the trees. Sam's head was bleeding, leaking into his one good eye and staining his iris red, but he shook his head and kept running, none the wiser. He was faster without the great things messing up his balance, and within five minutes we were breaking out of the great forest, onto the open plains that led up to the mountain Gate. Sam bounded up the rocky paths more easily than any mountain goat, leaping great heights as he bore me upwards, myself just clinging desperately to the overgrown hair along his neck and with my legs to stay on as he whirled, turned and leapt, and kept on leaping until we were well over half way up the mountain – the only way to get there usually is to fly.

Daring to try my luck, I looked behind me. The Hell hounds were swarming along the plains, their great black bodies melding until it looked like a blanket of darkness had covered the Garden. At the border of the trees fires started, and I knew that Dean and Castiel would not have survived, now. Sam didn't look back, his ears slanted slightly so he could hear our pursuers, but otherwise all his focus was on getting us up the mountain. His flanks were heaving and sweaty, his nostrils flared wide and his dark brown coat covered in his blood, the stag kept climbing.

Lucifer burst out of the top of the enflamed trees with another roar, his wings flared out and shining brilliantly as he took to the air, blade in hand. He shot towards us, and we weren't going to make it. The handprint on my arm began to burn. I focused on it, seeing the little tendril of Grace that tied me to my Brother and pulling at it, trying to distract Lucifer enough to slow him. It worked – he pulled up short, an expression of uncertainty on his face as he looked to his arm, where the phantom handprint lay. I tugged at the Grace again, then abruptly let it snap, severing our connection with enough force that even I, expecting it, gasped. Lucifer clutched at his arm, physical pain running through him – I'd imagine, anyway. Ties are always painful to break, and for a moment he backpedalled, his wings drooping and he dropped a bit of height. It was only a momentary distraction, but it was enough for Sam to reach the plateau where the Gate was. I slid off his back, my hand on his heaving belly as I thanked him. He nodded once, and then lay down by the path. I knew he wasn't getting back up again – blood loss and exhaustion were taking their toll on him, and he was as good as dead if the Hell hounds reached us.

They had reached the mountain, and I heard the powerful wing beats as Lucifer flew closer. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on my Brother as he flew around the top of the mountain, prolonging it, and then his wings closed and he landed, a few feet behind me. I opened my eyes and turned around.

"So this is how it ends. Again," I said, flexing my hands at my sides and searching around, in vain, for a weapon.

He twirled my blade in his hand. "So it would seem. I wish you wouldn't keep making me do this, little Brother, but you must be taken care of."

"Isn't it my job to be a thorn in your ass?" I snapped in reply, seeing the fire burn in his eyes as he stepped forward. I backed away, stopping only when I felt the cold stone of the Gate against my back, rocks digging into my spine. I had no escape. "Come on, Lucifer, do it."

He paused for a moment, and then sighed. "I've always loved you, Gabriel. I hope you know that. I wish I didn't have to do this."

I said nothing.

I braced myself.

He raised his arm, blade shining in the midday light as the sun touched it. He brought his arm down for the killing blow, which would have stabbed right through my heart…

Had I not dodged to the side at the last minute, and the blade touched against the rock face, and slid home. My sword went right into the rock as though it were hot metal, and I had just enough time to see Lucifer's shocked look before the rock shimmered, and the Gate opened slowly, just enough space in the opening for me to slip through it.

"Sorry, Luci – we'll have to do this again sometime," I said, never one to leave an opportunity to have the last word, and smiled, saluting him before I darted through the opening, right as it began to close. He roared in defeat, beating against the rock, but couldn't open it, as I tore my sword from the other side and to myself, so he no longer had it. I whooped in triumph, holding it high above my head as I stood on the border between Heaven and Earth. It was a crossroads, of all things, and in the center of it stood none other than my Father. He was smiling, and I swear I'd never been so happy to see Him in my existence. Joy radiated from Him as He opened His arms for me, and eagerly I ran to Him, embracing Him as I used to when He'd first created me. There were so many questions, but it was lost in the relief that I was alive, and okay, and I had earned my Father's forgiveness.

"You've done well, Gabriel," He said, smiling against my temple as He stroked through my newly grown wings, and they shuddered at His touch, arching high behind my back as I knelt in front of Him, holding out my blade for Him to take. "My son, what are you doing?"

I looked up at Him, still holding the sword out. "My place is not Home yet, Father," I said, uncertain for a moment. Though I had gotten out, I knew my Brother was still at large out there, and even if he wasn't, the Winchesters and my idiotic fallen Brother probably still had shit-loads of issues that needed to be dealt with Gabriel-style. I missed those three…and I needed to thank them, for saving me, even if they didn't know they'd done it. The stallion, wolf and stag…all my friends, and I missed them. "I still have much work to do."

He smiled, and placed His hand upon my brow. "I understand, my son. In fact, I'm inclined to agree. That is why I'm letting you go."

"Really?" I asked, surprised. I'd expected more of a fight, honestly.

"I want you to be happy, my son. And being with the Winchesters and Castiel will make you happy. And I have another task for you, waiting back on Earth." He paused, smiling for a moment. "I will be waiting for you when you return to Heaven." He smiled, withdrawing His touch again as He took my sword. "I will keep this safe for you when you decide to return Home." Then, His eyes looked over my shoulder, and I turned to see the very last pillar standing behind me, tall and towering in a mix of glass and rock and salt. I looked up at the giant structure, knowing that I would have to destroy this last thing before leaving. I looked back at my Father, grabbing my sword, and sliced cleanly through the pillar, letting it fall in shards around me, and the world went white.

I was falling. Fast, and hard, plummeting towards Earth as I left my Father and the Heaven I had longed to see behind. My wings stretched out and they _burned, _I was falling so fast, fighting with gravity and willingly losing. Thousands of my wings reached forward, touching Earth as I fell, and I almost laughed at the feeling of flying – of _falling. _It felt so good, so freeing, and I warmed and burned as I descended towards Earth, crashing into it with all the Grace of my species.

The crater was steaming by the time I managed to crawl out. Wow, my last descent had been a lot smoother. I was getting out of practice. I uncurled myself, feeling my wings stretch out, invisible, behind me and took a look around at the gawking humans, smirking. It was good to be home. A snap of my fingers and the crater was gone, as was the memory of it, leaving behind just a normal semi-full parking lot and a –

"Ooh, Dairy Queen." I grinned, knowing that I could definitely go for that before I went saving the world again, and sauntered inside.

Title: Infinity Restaurant  
>Author: HigherMagic<br>Pairings: Sort of Sam/Gabriel you have the hat for it.  
>Rating: R for violence, swearing and some graphic disturbing images.<br>Word Count:  
>Spoilers: Spirit of S6, up to and including 6.10, and then I change it.<br>**Notes: **This is the second part of 'Waitin' On An Eagle's Feather'.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> In a last ditch attempt to find and retrieve Sam's soul, the remaining members of Team Free Will take another step in the most desperate direction yet, defying Death, Heaven and Hell all over again.

**"**Sam's soul has been locked in the cage with Michael and Lucifer for more than a_ year_. And they have nothing to do but take their frustrations out on him. Do you understand? If we try to force that mutilated thing down Sam's gullet, we have no idea what will happen. It could be catastrophic."

**"**You mean he dies."

**"**I mean he doesn't." Castiel's voice was low and desperate, trying to make Dean understand just exactly what he's asking for, here. "Paralysis. Insanity. Psychic pain so profound that he's locked inside himself for the rest of his life."

Dean stared at Castiel incredulously, mouth parted and expression set in one of disbelief. His fists clenched, as did his jaw. "You're wrong," he said, eyes hard. Castiel watched Dean with a forlorn expression, pitying the poor fool who had such a strong ability to deny himself the truth.

"For someone that spends his life finding answers, Dean, you're very bad at receiving them," the Angel said sadly, cocking his head to one side, blue eyes dark and sorrowful.

"Don't you fucking pity me, Castiel, or I swear to God…" Dean stood back, straightening, and shook his head. "No. There has to be another way. Someone that can get Sam's soul _and _wash him clean. I mean…I mean, my soul was fucked up beyond belief but you managed to get me back without much damage."

"That wasn't _in the cage, _Dean, with two _Archangels." _Castiel made a soft sound of frustration, averting his gaze. "The things you're imagining…there is only one person I can think of that could even attempt it."

"Who?" Dean demanded, stepping forward. When Castiel remained silent Dean's hand shot out, grabbing onto Castiel's trench coat and jerking the Angel harshly. "_Who,_ Castiel?"

Castiel looked back to Dean, their faces inches apart and slowly reached up to grab onto Dean's wrist. Immediately the Hunter hissed, body dipping in an effort to avoid the pain in his wrist as Castiel pressed down on the pressure point, pulling his wrist back painfully. The darkness in the Angel's eyes said it all. Dean subsided, pulling away and Castiel let him, the Hunter looking at Castiel as though he was a stranger, rubbing his wrist. "Who, Cas? Tell me," he whispered softly, desperately.

The Angel sighed, rolling his eyes, and moved away from Dean, beginning to pace around the room. His lips were pressed into a thin line and when he rounded on the Hunter, it was obvious that he _really _didn't want to say the answer.

"Gabriel."

The name hung in the room as Dean stared at Castiel incredulously, lips parted and eyes wide in surprise, before he snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose and clenching his eyes tightly shut. "Of course," he said softly.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel replied with a soft voice. "Gabriel is – _was – _the Archangel of Incarnation and he was also the Destroyer. He is the only one I would know as being able to know where all the planes of existence are. Besides…" Castiel's eyes flashed to the Hunter's. "He is not in Heaven. He is not in Hell. He is not on Earth. Even if he could not get Sam's soul, he would be able to provide the answer that would."

"Great, well that's just great," Dean said, exasperation and resignation in his voice as he looked down, pacing towards the other side of the room, and resting his hand on the top of Bobby's liquor cabinet. "And I guess we don't know how to resurrect an Archangel?"

Castiel sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid we've never had to. I couldn't tell you where to begin. Grace is not like a soul, Dean – no one knows where we go when we die. Only God."

Dean sighed, lifting his head, and then turned around to look at Castiel, because we all know how that particular train of thought ends. He swallowed, clenching his jaw tightly for a moment before he nodded, straightening, his decision made.

"That's not true. One other person does."

Castiel's eyes widened. "Dean. No."

"Why not?" the Winchester demanded, rounding on the Angel and pointing a finger accusingly at him. "Why the Hell shouldn't I?"

"Because you are tampering with things that should not be tampered with!" Castiel replied stiffly, anger flaring in his eyes. "Haven't you had enough defying the laws of destiny and order?" He advanced on the Hunter, pinning him in the corner with his gaze, speaking through clenched teeth. Dean could swear he saw the outlines of Castiel's wings shimmering out behind him, arching high and aggressive over his back. "Surely you've grown tired of throwing a spanner in the works? Eventually you will play with fire and be burned, Dean Winchester, and I will not be the one to clean up your mess! Not this time!"

"Cas -."

"No. Be quiet." Castiel made a dismissive gesture with his hand and Dean's lips were sealed shut. "It is not your place to bother him, Dean, and even if you did he will not help you. His job isn't to _bring people back. _Now I don't want to hear another word of it, especially not when Sam's listening in."

Dean's eyes widened when Castiel looked over his shoulder, following his gaze to where Sam's shadow was cast onto the opposite wall in the hallway by the hall light. Dean rolled his eyes when Sam loomed into the doorway, and he would be sheepish if he had a soul to be sheepish with. As it was, his face was impassive.

Castiel fixed Sam with a long look, and then gazed back at Dean. "I will continue looking into the subject of retrieving Sam's soul. Do not attempt any covert methods, because I assure you I will know about it." And then, he was gone, and Dean could speak again.

He wiped the back of his hand across his face, scowling in the place Castiel had once been. "Dick Angels," he muttered, looking up and meeting Sam's eyes.

The younger Winchester looked thoughtful. "So…you were gonna go to Death? Why?" he asked, cocking his head to one side in the gesture that Dean had come to associate with things that didn't have souls. Seriously – Angels, Werewolves, Vampires, Sam – they all do it. It's like a 'Study the strange creature' face, and it really gets on Dean's nerves.

"I thought…Death would be able to help us find Gabriel."

"Gabriel," Sam repeated in a deadpan voice.

"Yeah. Maybe bring him back so he could get in the cage. He has the mojo and the ability to get your soul back and heal you if necessary."

Sam paused, and Dean let him think because Sam thought with logic nowadays – cold, hard logic – and while it was annoying and _wrong, _weird to associate this Sam with the hotheaded, emotional brother that Dean had always known, it did come in handy when thinking up foolhardy plans and ways to make sure they were slightly more possible.

"Gabriel was the Archangel of Resurrection," Sam said after a moment, eyes going back to Dean's. "He could do it. But why would he want to?"

"What?" Dean snapped.

"Why would he want to, Dean? Think about it…" Sam came forward, pushing a stack of books from Bobby's desk aside and sitting on the table instead, hands folded between his knees, looking at his big brother. "He wanted the Apocalypse. Well, crisis averted, why would he care anymore? Even if he did stand with us at the last minute, what care would he have now? It's over – it's done. Hell doesn't want them back and they can't get them back now, and the Angels have their own problems. There's no real _threat, _so there's no reason to respond."

"How about Crowley setting up shop in Purgatory?"

Sam frowned for a moment at Dean's snappy reply. "How does me having a soul affect that?"

Dean sighed, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. "You know what, Sam? Just humor me. I don't like Gabriel any more than the next guy, but he's the best shot I can think of. We have to bring him back."

"…Okay."

"Okay?"

Sam looked at Dean, slightly exasperated – he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dean. Okay. If this is what you need to do to get closure, then I'm in." A pause. "Cas won't be happy about it."

"Yeah, well." Dean shrugged. "I still remember the sigils to get rid of him. And he has his own stuff. We can handle being without him for a little while." Sam's expression didn't change and Dean rolled his eyes, forcing a smile. "Come on, Sammy, it'll be a cake walk! Just…having lunch with Death. He knows the best places."

The joke was obviously lost on Sam, but then again it could have been the most hilarious one ever – Sam didn't laugh since he got back with no soul, unless he was making fun of Dean's theoretical romps with faerie lords. There were a lot of things that Sam didn't do. Dean sighed and went upstairs to pack up their stuff.

Death and Gabriel were old, if not good, friends. Well, more like business associates – Gabriel sent a _lot _of clients his way, after all, some of them big. The Destroyer indeed, Gabriel had long been in the business of killing things at God's command, and whenever he'd see that pale rider he'd give him a passing nod in greeting, and the hood would nod back. Death was a lot more stereotypical back then – since then he's evolved and grown a personality and gotten himself a whole new look. Tessa is proof of that.

Dean figured that Death's Ring might be able to get them the bargaining chip to either get Sam or Gabriel. Or maybe even just find God because Death's aware of everything, right? And he'll reap God, and it doesn't do good to lose sight of a chicken before it's due to become food. Tapping out a soft rhythm on the Impala's steering wheel, Dean bit his lip, trying to think through all possible outcomes of a confrontation with Death. All the Omens pointed to D.C. at that time and that's where the brothers were headed, Dean mulling over every option and possible outcome, wanting to plan and make allowances for everything because screwing this up could be the end of them. The real end.

Sam was staring out of the window, doing some thinking of his own. He frowned, grimacing uneasily, rubbing his gut almost absent-mindedly as he continued to stare out of the window. He was hungry. This, of course, wasn't new because even without a soul people still needed to eat, but he'd just had lunch an hour ago and therefore shouldn't be hungry now, and he felt _so _ravenous he was sick with it, actually. It wasn't a build-up – one moment Sam was sitting in the passenger seat and trying to block out the annoying and repetitive lyrics of Dean's cassette tapes and the next he was achingly, blindingly, sickeningly hungry.

Dean caught Sam's motion out of the corner of his eye. "You alright there, Sam?"

_Sam, _Sam thought with a tone that would have been bitter if he could still feel things like bitterness. _Never Sammy anymore. Does Sammy need a soul to be a Sammy? _He ceased his inner ramblings and turned his head to look at his brother, and blinked at the action caused him to become lightheaded. He pressed a clammy palm to his forehead.

"Nothin', Dean," he ground out. "Just…_Jesus._" He felt another pang low in his gut, and not the good kind. He felt like his stomach was trying to curl in on itself, overwhelmed with the amount of _empty. _"Just really, really suddenly hungry. Really fuckin' hungry, man."

Dean raised an eyebrow, and felt a little amusement because, for some strange and stupid reason, his mind immediately jumped to the rugaru. He pushed back that thought before it could take hold because Sam wasn't a freaking rugaru – he'd like to think he'd notice something like that by now. "Alright," he said slowly, unsure if this was some weird kind of ploy Sam was playing at him to…what? Delay them maybe? Granted, Sam wasn't exactly jumping over himself to get his soul back, but that's because he _couldn't. _So, maybe he wasn't that eager to go see the guy to do it but that didn't mean he would delay…surely… "There's a stop a few miles ahead. Can you wait that long?" he asked, because Sam was actually kind of starting to worry him. His little brother was bent double over himself, clutching his stomach, teeth bared and forehead resting against his knees. Dean reached out, unable to help himself because he _always helps and protects Sammy, _and flattened his palm over Sam's shoulder. "Answer me, Sam," he demanded, worried now, stepping on the gas to make the Impala fly for him, "can you wait a few minutes?"

Sam made a sound that was kind of like a groan and nodded, and Dean relaxed a little, putting his hand back on the wheel.

As they got closer Sam's condition worsened, and by the time Dean found a place to park next to a diner Sam was beside himself with pain, hunger unlike anything he'd ever known, even with the demon blood, streaking through his body. The younger Winchester sounded like a wounded animal when Dean got out of the car, tempted to just drag his sorry ass in there because it didn't seem like Sam could walk, but it would be better if Dean managed to go in and pick up something and then run back for Sam with it.

He bent down, leaning against the open passenger door. "I'm gonna go get some food, alright Sam?" he asked, consciously not reverting back to 'Sammy' because that didn't sit right with him. Sammy was the kid who always demanded the last bowl of cereal and who would sleep in Dean's bed when they were kids and he was afraid, who he was meant to protect and who he dragged out to light illegal fireworks with and who he loved so much, who he knew would go to Hell for him. This wasn't Sammy. This was Sam, the asshole with no filter on his mouth, who hooked up with girls while Dean 'services the King of the Faeries' and who's currently doubled over in pain from hunger while they're trying to retrieve his soul.

"Dean," Sam grit out, not able to feel fear, but his body sure seemed able to and was reminding him very forcefully of the kinds of things it did when Sam was afraid. His heart pounded in his head, his breathing was labored, his gut _hurt, _like he'd been shot, and he reached out, clutching desperately at the sleeve of Dean's jacket. "Don't leave me here."

"Alright, Sammy, alright," Dean replied, principles be damned, and hauled his little brother out of the car. Sam blew a big breath out of his nose, gritting his teeth and trying to get his feet to stand underneath him, and managed to right himself somewhat. Dean grit his teeth also, because Sam's a fucking _giant, _and made his way towards the Diner. The air around them smelled of burgers and chili fries and Dean knew his own stomach would be rumbling were it not knotted in fear over Sam's state. Unconsciously he sent up a little prayer (or more a random thought to whoever might be listening) that Sam would be alright, that this was just some weird fluke or effect of a monster they could easily kill. That this wasn't a soul thing. Or lack thereof.

As soon as they entered the restaurant, Dean knew something was wrong. Mostly because it was much more crowded than any backwater diner had a right to be in the afternoon, and secondly because Sam suddenly straightened, his hunger passing. He looked just as confused as Dean did, and the Hunter didn't even need to turn around to know that the door would either have disappeared, or be unopenable.

There are only so many times you can be locked into a room and come to expect it.

He looked around, getting his bearings, and paused. The room was full of demons – he knew this because they all had their eyes very much out, black and soulless and _evil_, and he cursed his own luck because the Colt was in the car and the demon-killing knife – though useful and actually _on them_ – wouldn't do much in a full-on fight. There were almost twenty demons in here.

They were all chatting to each other and laughing, as though unaware that they were trapped in a room with the Winchesters, and eating what looked like…Dean wrinkled his nose, eyeing the food – it was certainly unappealing, looked like road-kill that an unfortunate animal had already tried to eat before it gave it serious indigestion, and then had been flattened with a muddy tire. But the demons were happily cutting into it, eating it, the black-green sludge spewing out around their mouths as they talked and ate. It made Dean want to throw up. A little.

His eyes widened when a familiar face finally seemed to take notice of them, and he stepped back as Azazel stood up, grinning amiably like the Winchesters were long lost friends. Sam, too, looked disconcerted, but he obviously wasn't feeling the bone-deep terror Dean was experiencing. "You!" the older Winchester snapped. "No, I killed you!"

"Well, of course you did," Azazel replied, grinning and snorting like suggesting anything otherwise was just foolishness of the highest order. He smiled and there was green stuck around the edges of his teeth from whatever he was eating. "You also killed him, and her, and him, and him…" He went around the room, pointing out demons that Dean and Sam had run into at one point or another in their lives and dealt with – Alistair, Ruby, Lilith, stunt demons one to seventy. It wasn't helping Dean's mental state any, but they were all still smiling at him and he hated that – he hated when a demon was smiling. "You've killed everyone in this place."

"What…exactly is this place?" Sam asked, looking around, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Azazel shrugged. It seemed like he was done being helpful, as he sat back down to his meal and the demons continued to talk. Dean backed away from them, towards the only other door he could see which looked like it led into the kitchen. They could try getting out that way.

When he pushed open the door, though, he had to duck as a knife suddenly came at his head. He cursed, jumping to the side inside of the room and grabbed his gun, cocking it and readying to fire, just in case. There was a high-pitched giggle and then the pattering of feet.

"I once met a man with a dagger in his back. He had the moon in one eye and in the other only black," a young girl's voice sing-songed, the voice getting layers and discordant and Dean shifted uneasily, looking around the stack of baking powder and spices he'd thrown himself behind. He looked around for Sam, saw him just past the grills, his back to one wall and holding his own weapon, and then Dean jerked his head back the way they'd come. Sam nodded, face grim.

Dean didn't make it two steps before another weapon was aimed at his head, this one he barely missed. "Can't go back the way you came! Why would you go back that way? That way is Hell! Bad! Evil! Hell!" The girl's voice was shrieking, echoing off the chrome and tile walls and Dean winced, covering one ear, the other holding his weapon gingerly out as he dove from behind the shelves and aimed, firing blindly into the darkness beyond but no more missiles were sent his way. He got up gingerly, the girl's voice dying to echoes, and Sam joined him.

"This place is weird," he whispered to his brother, who shrugged and his lips thinned out into a grim line.

"Someone doesn't want us to leave here," he replied, heading deeper into the darkness of the kitchen until he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. "Someone doesn't want us going back so we'll keep going forward."

"A sound theory," Sam replied with only an edge of sarcasm, and Dean rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to flip him off.

Sam wouldn't be able to see it anyway.

Suddenly a bright light shone down on the brothers and Dean flinched at the sudden change, and he shielded his eyes, looking up as wind began to blow around the pair, chill and foreboding. The light was coming from a TV screen, and it was showing…

Was that…

_"Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?"_

"Alice in Wonderland?" Sam asked, wrinkling his nose as he figured it out. Dean snorted and shook his head, trying to peer into the darkness around them, to no avail. "So…what…are we in the rabbit hole or something?"

The sound of applause sounded around them. Dean snorted.

"Great," he muttered, running a hand through his hair and they kept walking. "Just freakin' great."

The next room was a ballroom. It was full of red velour-lined chairs, set in concentric circles to each other and in the middle of them; the chairs were piled high in all sorts of weird, wonderful, gravity-defying designs. One of the stacks looked like a sword, the other a dragon, and there was a line connecting them.

"Michael and Lucifer," Dean whispered, because when you spend a year being Heaven's bitch-boy, you tend to notice when things have religious rings to them. Sam nodded behind him and Dean looked around. The walls were white and arched high above the brothers' heads, vaulting up to create a domed ceiling in the shape of a thirteen-pointed star. There was probably some significance in that too. Along the walls were pictures of people that had died. People that Dean and Sam knew. Their mother. Their father. Jo, Ellen, Pam. People that _they_ had gotten killed.

"This is some sick son of a bitch," Dean growled, looking at all the faces, for now he saw why the room was so tall – the walls were covered in pictures. Just faces, but there were thousands. Millions. People that they could have saved, people that they didn't save, people that never were because of them. Children of the victims and the grandchildren of those. Generations and generations that had ceased to exist because of the decision of the two men in that room.

"You boys have a lot to account for."

Dean and Sam whirled around, and there, standing on the top of the dragon's gaping maw, was Gabriel. The Archangel looked tired and when he smiled, it was blinding. He seemed to glow and Dean suddenly realized that there was no light in the room. _He _was the light.

"Gabriel?" he asked, just because.

The Archangel-Trickster smiled and gestured to himself. "The very same."

"You're dead too."

Gabriel smiled and tapped the side of his nose. "Death's such a tricky thing," he said with a slight shrug, stepping down from the dragon's tongue and daintily treading along the line of the sword that was slaying it, arms either side of him like he was walking a tight-rope. "Well, I say tricky. More like fickle. He just cares about the coming, but not about the going. Really, though…you'd think they'd have better security, or at least an escort. I guess not even Death knows what happens to an Archangel beyond the grave."

The boys frowned, because Gabriel was just talking without making sense. The Archangel reached the handle of the sword, climbing to the top of it. "So…are you dead or aren't you?"

"Did you trap us inside of this place?"

"What _is _this place?"

"Questions, questions!" Gabriel sing-songed, spinning around on top of the chair. For an instant he looked in danger of falling but he caught himself and righted himself with little effort, balancing better than any acrobat had a hope of accomplishing as the stack of chairs began to wobble and weave. The painted faces on the walls began to age. "You know, time and death are such tricky things. So _fluid_, you know?" He turned around and greeted the boys with a vacant, slightly menacing smile. "I mean…how long have I been dead for? Do you even remember? And so much has _changed_." He sighed, smiling again, and blood started to leak from the corners of his mouth. Dean and Sam stepped back, eyes widening in horror – even Sam – when Gabriel's eyes turned black.

"Sam," Dean whispered urgently, looking over his shoulder at his little brother. "We should go."

"Yes, yes, go!" Gabriel jumped down, landing on the dragon's tail, blood gushing down around his chin as he smiled. "Always running away, aren't you boys? That's what you do!" The paintings around the room grew black eyes, blood running from their eyes and mouths as well, pooling on the floor in thick rivulets. "Run and find other people to fix your problems! _You are tampering with things that should not be tampered with! Haven't you had enough defying the laws of destiny and order? Surely you've grown tired of throwing a spanner in the works? Eventually you will play with fire and be burned, Dean Winchester, and I will not be the one to clean up your mess! Not this time!" _

It was Castiel's voice overlaying that of his demonized brother, and wings exploded in the air along with a bright white light. Dean and Sam flinched away from it, shielding their eyes as the light only grew brighter and brighter, blinding them, and then with it came a high-pitched whine like an Angel screaming. Dean grabbed blindly for Sam's arm and pulled him, running along the walls until he found a door – any door, any escape.

The air began to burn, randomly lighting on fire and Dean cursed and jumped to one side as he brushed past a floating ball of flame and it grazed his skin, burning his neck. He put his other hand to his burned neck and shoved against a door once he found it, pulling Sam with him before they were burned alive.

Both brothers were breathing heavily – Dean from panic, Sam from exertion. Wide, green eyes found the flat calm of his brother's. "What the ever-loving…?" Dean asked, trailing off after a moment and looking back the way they'd come. There was a bright glow slanting along the floor where the door was cracked open and the room beyond burned. "What kind of mind fuck _is _this?" he growled, getting frustrated now, unable to scrub the image from his mind of all those people, bleeding and burning.

"I don't know," Sam replied stoically, looking around them again. His brow was furrowed, lips turned down in a thin line. "It's kind of like…"

"What, Sammy?"

"Did you ever play those old video games? Like on the Nintendo and stuff?" Dean raised an eyebrow, as he'd never even heard of _MySpace _until a few years ago. "Well, when I was younger my friends had them and they had games that were kind of like this – like, you went into a dungeon or temple or something and in every room there was something to fight, or to kill, or to avoid. And you had to get through the dungeon and then fight the big boss at the end."

There was a slight pause. "…_Why _would anyone want to play something like that?" Dean asked, exasperated and wondering why Sam was even bringing this up. His neck hurt every time he talked and he winced, flattening his palm over the burn again and looking around, hoping to find a source of cold water. The brothers seemed to have ended up back in that dark kitchen with the nameless missile launcher, but it was better lit so Dean could see everything and it looked scarily like the diner that he'd cornered Famine in. Luckily there were no burning and boiling bodies. He went over to a sink and turned on the cold water, splashing some on his neck while Sam answered him;

"I don't know, Dean – it was fun." His voice was snappy and petulant, as though annoyed that Dean wasn't getting the point, here. "What I'm trying to say is maybe this is like that – the most we can do is make it through one room at a time and then we'll find the main boss guy."

"I don't think I want to meet the thing that creates shit like this," Dean growled, knowing he had no choice in the matter anyway – there wasn't a 'go back' option, that was for sure. He straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and wincing again at the stretch of his sore, burned skin, but there was nothing they could do about it – the fastest solution was to beat the boss, like Sam said. "Alright. Come on, Sam." He led the way towards the back of the room, pushing through the door with gun loaded and cocked, ready to use immediately. He wanted to get this over with as fast as possible because they had a meeting with Death to go to and Dean didn't want to be late for his own damned sit-in.

He paused for a moment on the threshold to the new room, peering inside. _Death_ _could have done this, _he thought absently as he looked around the room. There was nothing inside of it and no creepy paintings on the wall. It was boring and very bland-looking, white-walled and white-ceilinged and about as big as Bobby's house. Death certainly had a creepy-ass sense of humor – Dean could see him pulling this kind of stunt. To delay them, maybe.

"_Time is fluid._" The words came from nowhere and Dean spun around, putting his back to Sam's because, soul or not, there were some habits that never died. The words painted themselves in blood along the walls, and Dean could _smell_ the rust – it was fresh blood. _"Well, more like silly putty. Or blu-tac. If one knows how, one can take as much one wants and place it wherever they want. One room could age ten years in one day."_

The blood words dripped down onto the floor, pooling in a thick red puddle, and Dean blanched, stepping away from it.


	2. Infinity Restaurant

Title: Infinity Restaurant  
>Author: HigherMagic<br>Pairings: Sort of Sam/Gabriel and Dean/Castiel pre-slash.  
>Rating: R for violence, swearing and some graphic disturbing images.<br>Word Count: 10,373  
>Spoilers: Spirit of S6, up to and including 6.10, and then I change it. But I'll say how Sam got his soul is largely the AU part here.<br>**Notes: **Was intended as the second part of Waitin' On An Eagle's Feather, but can be read as a stand-alone. It's just you'll get more of the references if you read that first. Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> In a last ditch attempt to find and retrieve Sam's soul, Dean leads the brothers off on his most desperate attempt yet; a plan fraught with danger and, apparently, a baddie with a penchant for video games.

* * *

><p><strong>"<strong>Sam's soul has been locked in the cage with Michael and Lucifer for more than a_ year_. And they have nothing to do but take their frustrations out on him. Do you understand? If we try to force that mutilated thing down Sam's gullet, we have no idea what will happen. It could be catastrophic."

**"**You mean he dies."

**"**I mean he doesn't." Castiel's voice was low and desperate, trying to make Dean understand just exactly what he's asking for, here. "Paralysis. Insanity. Psychic pain so profound that he's locked inside himself for the rest of his life."

Dean stared at Castiel incredulously, mouth parted and expression set in one of disbelief. His fists clenched, as did his jaw. "You're wrong," he said, eyes hard. Castiel watched Dean with a forlorn expression, pitying the poor fool who had such a strong ability to deny himself the truth.

"For someone that spends his life finding answers, Dean, you're very bad at receiving them," the Angel said sadly, cocking his head to one side, blue eyes dark and sorrowful.

"Don't you fucking pity me, Castiel, or I swear to God…" Dean stood back, straightening, and shook his head. "No. There has to be another way. Someone that can get Sam's soul _and _wash him clean. I mean…I mean, my soul was fucked up beyond belief but you managed to get me back without much damage."

"That wasn't _in the cage, _Dean, with two _Archangels." _Castiel made a soft sound of frustration, averting his gaze. "The things you're imagining…there is only one person I can think of that could even attempt it."

"Who?" Dean demanded, stepping forward. When Castiel remained silent Dean's hand shot out, grabbing onto Castiel's trench coat and jerking the Angel harshly. "_Who,_ Castiel?"

Castiel looked back to Dean, their faces inches apart and slowly reached up to grab onto Dean's wrist. Immediately the Hunter hissed, body dipping in an effort to avoid the pain in his wrist as Castiel pressed down on the pressure point, pulling his wrist back painfully. The darkness in the Angel's eyes said it all. Dean subsided, pulling away and Castiel let him, the Hunter looking at Castiel as though he was a stranger, rubbing his wrist. "Who, Cas? Tell me," he whispered softly, desperately.

The Angel sighed, rolling his eyes, and moved away from Dean, beginning to pace around the room. His lips were pressed into a thin line and when he rounded on the Hunter, it was obvious that he _really _didn't want to say the answer.

"Gabriel."

The name hung in the room as Dean stared at Castiel incredulously, lips parted and eyes wide in surprise, before he snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose and clenching his eyes tightly shut. "Of course," he said softly.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel replied with a soft voice. "Gabriel is – _was – _the Archangel of Incarnation and he was also the Destroyer. He is the only one I would know as being able to know where all the planes of existence are. Besides…" Castiel's eyes flashed to the Hunter's. "He is not in Heaven. He is not in Hell. He is not on Earth. Even if he could not get Sam's soul, he would be able to provide the answer that would."

"Great, well that's just great," Dean said, exasperation and resignation in his voice as he looked down, pacing towards the other side of the room, and resting his hand on the top of Bobby's liquor cabinet. "And I guess we don't know how to resurrect an Archangel?"

Castiel sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid we've never had to. I couldn't tell you where to begin. Grace is not like a soul, Dean – no one knows where we go when we die. Only God."

Dean sighed, lifting his head, and then turned around to look at Castiel, because we all know how that particular train of thought ends. He swallowed, clenching his jaw tightly for a moment before he nodded, straightening, his decision made.

"That's not true. One other person does."

Castiel's eyes widened. "Dean. No."

"Why not?" the Winchester demanded, rounding on the Angel and pointing a finger accusingly at him. "Why the Hell shouldn't I?"

"Because you are tampering with things that should not be tampered with!" Castiel replied stiffly, anger flaring in his eyes. "Haven't you had enough defying the laws of destiny and order?" He advanced on the Hunter, pinning him in the corner with his gaze, speaking through clenched teeth. Dean could swear he saw the outlines of Castiel's wings shimmering out behind him, arching high and aggressive over his back. "Surely you've grown tired of throwing a spanner in the works? Eventually you will play with fire and be burned, Dean Winchester, and I will not be the one to clean up your mess! Not this time!"

"Cas -."

"No. Be quiet." Castiel made a dismissive gesture with his hand and Dean's lips were sealed shut. "It is not your place to bother him, Dean, and even if you did he will not help you. His job isn't to _bring people back. _Now I don't want to hear another word of it, especially not when Sam's listening in."

Dean's eyes widened when Castiel looked over his shoulder, following his gaze to where Sam's shadow was cast onto the opposite wall in the hallway by the hall light. Dean rolled his eyes when Sam loomed into the doorway, and he would be sheepish if he had a soul to be sheepish with. As it was, his face was impassive.

Castiel fixed Sam with a long look, and then gazed back at Dean. "I will continue looking into the subject of retrieving Sam's soul. Do not attempt any covert methods, because I assure you I will know about it." And then, he was gone, and Dean could speak again.

He wiped the back of his hand across his face, scowling in the place Castiel had once been. "Dick Angels," he muttered, looking up and meeting Sam's eyes.

The younger Winchester looked thoughtful. "So…you were gonna go to Death? Why?" he asked, cocking his head to one side in the gesture that Dean had come to associate with things that didn't have souls. Seriously – Angels, Werewolves, Vampires, Sam – they all do it. It's like a 'Study the strange creature' face, and it really gets on Dean's nerves.

"I thought…Death would be able to help us find Gabriel."

"Gabriel," Sam repeated in a deadpan voice.

"Yeah. Maybe bring him back so he could get in the cage. He has the mojo and the ability to get your soul back and heal you if necessary."

Sam paused, and Dean let him think because Sam thought with logic nowadays – cold, hard logic – and while it was annoying and _wrong, _weird to associate this Sam with the hotheaded, emotional brother that Dean had always known, it did come in handy when thinking up foolhardy plans and ways to make sure they were slightly more possible.

"Gabriel was the Archangel of Resurrection," Sam said after a moment, eyes going back to Dean's. "He could do it. But why would he want to?"

"What?" Dean snapped.

"Why would he want to, Dean? Think about it…" Sam came forward, pushing a stack of books from Bobby's desk aside and sitting on the table instead, hands folded between his knees, looking at his big brother. "He wanted the Apocalypse. Well, crisis averted, why would he care anymore? Even if he did stand with us at the last minute, what care would he have now? It's over – it's done. Hell doesn't want them back and they can't get them back now, and the Angels have their own problems. There's no real _threat, _so there's no reason to respond."

"How about Crowley setting up shop in Purgatory?"

Sam frowned for a moment at Dean's snappy reply. "How does me having a soul affect that?"

Dean sighed, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. "You know what, Sam? Just humor me. I don't like Gabriel any more than the next guy, but he's the best shot I can think of. We have to bring him back."

"…Okay."

"Okay?"

Sam looked at Dean, slightly exasperated – he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dean. Okay. If this is what you need to do to get closure, then I'm in." A pause. "Cas won't be happy about it."

"Yeah, well." Dean shrugged. "I still remember the sigils to get rid of him. And he has his own stuff. We can handle being without him for a little while." Sam's expression didn't change and Dean rolled his eyes, forcing a smile. "Come on, Sammy, it'll be a cake walk! Just…having lunch with Death. He knows the best places."

The joke was obviously lost on Sam, but then again it could have been the most hilarious one ever – Sam didn't laugh since he got back with no soul, unless he was making fun of Dean's theoretical romps with faerie lords. There were a lot of things that Sam didn't do. Dean sighed and went upstairs to pack up their stuff.

* * *

><p>Death and Gabriel were old, if not good, friends. Well, more like business associates – Gabriel sent a <em>lot <em>of clients his way, after all, some of them big. The Destroyer indeed, Gabriel had long been in the business of killing things at God's command, and whenever he'd see that pale rider he'd give him a passing nod in greeting, and the hood would nod back. Death was a lot more stereotypical back then – since then he's evolved and grown a personality and gotten himself a whole new look. Tessa is proof of that.

Dean figured that Death's Ring might be able to get them the bargaining chip to either get Sam or Gabriel. Or maybe even just find God because Death's aware of everything, right? And he'll reap God, and it doesn't do good to lose sight of a chicken before it's due to become food. Tapping out a soft rhythm on the Impala's steering wheel, Dean bit his lip, trying to think through all possible outcomes of a confrontation with Death. All the Omens pointed to D.C. at that time and that's where the brothers were headed, Dean mulling over every option and possible outcome, wanting to plan and make allowances for everything because screwing this up could be the end of them. The real end.

Sam was staring out of the window, doing some thinking of his own. He frowned, grimacing uneasily, rubbing his gut almost absent-mindedly as he continued to stare out of the window. He was hungry. This, of course, wasn't new because even without a soul people still needed to eat, but he'd just had lunch an hour ago and therefore shouldn't be hungry now, and he felt _so _ravenous he was sick with it, actually. It wasn't a build-up – one moment Sam was sitting in the passenger seat and trying to block out the annoying and repetitive lyrics of Dean's cassette tapes and the next he was achingly, blindingly, sickeningly hungry.

Dean caught Sam's motion out of the corner of his eye. "You alright there, Sam?"

_Sam, _Sam thought with a tone that would have been bitter if he could still feel things like bitterness. _Never Sammy anymore. Does Sammy need a soul to be a Sammy? _He ceased his inner ramblings and turned his head to look at his brother, and blinked as the action caused him to become lightheaded. He pressed a clammy palm to his forehead.

"Nothin', Dean," he ground out. "Just…_Jesus._" He felt another pang low in his gut, and not the good kind. He felt like his stomach was trying to curl in on itself, overwhelmed with the amount of _empty. _"Just really, really suddenly hungry. Really fuckin' hungry, man."

Dean raised an eyebrow, and felt a little amusement because, for some strange and stupid reason, his mind immediately jumped to the rugaru. He pushed back that thought before it could take hold because Sam wasn't a freaking rugaru – he'd like to think he'd notice something like that by now. "Alright," he said slowly, unsure if this was some weird kind of ploy Sam was playing at him to…what? Delay them maybe? Granted, Sam wasn't exactly jumping over himself to get his soul back, but that's because he _couldn't. _So, maybe he wasn't that eager to go see the guy to do it but that didn't mean he would delay…surely… "There's a stop a few miles ahead. Can you wait that long?" he asked, because Sam was actually kind of starting to worry him. His little brother was bent double over himself, clutching his stomach, teeth bared and forehead resting against his knees. Dean reached out, unable to help himself because he _always helps and protects Sammy, _and flattened his palm over Sam's shoulder. "Answer me, Sam," he demanded, worried now, stepping on the gas to make the Impala fly for him, "can you wait a few minutes?"

Sam made a sound that was kind of like a groan and nodded, and Dean relaxed a little, putting his hand back on the wheel.

As they got closer Sam's condition worsened, and by the time Dean found a place to park next to a diner Sam was beside himself with pain, hunger unlike anything he'd ever known, even with the demon blood, streaking through his body. The younger Winchester sounded like a wounded animal when Dean got out of the car, tempted to just drag his sorry ass in there because it didn't seem like Sam could walk, but it would be better if Dean managed to go in and pick up something and then run back for Sam with it.

He bent down, leaning against the open passenger door. "I'm gonna go get some food, alright Sam?" he asked, consciously not reverting back to 'Sammy' because that didn't sit right with him. Sammy was the kid who always demanded the last bowl of cereal and who would sleep in Dean's bed when they were kids and he was afraid, who he was meant to protect and who he dragged out to light illegal fireworks with and who he loved so much, who he knew would go to Hell for him. This wasn't Sammy. This was Sam, the asshole with no filter on his mouth, who hooked up with girls while Dean 'services the King of the Faeries' and who's currently doubled over in pain from hunger while they're trying to retrieve his soul.

"Dean," Sam grit out, not able to feel fear, but his body sure seemed able to and was reminding him very forcefully of the kinds of things it did when Sam was afraid. His heart pounded in his head, his breathing was labored, his gut _hurt, _like he'd been shot, and he reached out, clutching desperately at the sleeve of Dean's jacket. "Don't leave me here."

"Alright, Sammy, alright," Dean replied, principles be damned, and hauled his little brother out of the car. Sam blew a big breath out of his nose, gritting his teeth and trying to get his feet to stand underneath him, and managed to right himself somewhat. Dean grit his teeth also, because Sam's a fucking _giant, _and made his way towards the Diner. The air around them smelled of burgers and chili fries and Dean knew his own stomach would be rumbling were it not knotted in fear over Sam's state. Unconsciously he sent up a little prayer (or more a random thought to whoever might be listening) that Sam would be alright, that this was just some weird fluke or effect of a monster they could easily kill. That this wasn't a soul thing. Or lack thereof.

As soon as they entered the restaurant, Dean knew something was wrong. Mostly because it was much more crowded than any backwater diner had a right to be in the afternoon, and secondly because Sam suddenly straightened, his hunger passing. He looked just as confused as Dean did, and the Hunter didn't even need to turn around to know that the door would either have disappeared, or be unopenable.

There are only so many times you can be locked into a room and come to expect it.

He looked around, getting his bearings, and paused. The room was full of demons – he knew this because they all had their eyes very much out, black and soulless and _evil_, and he cursed his own luck because the Colt was in the car and the demon-killing knife – though useful and actually _on them_ – wouldn't do much in a full-on fight. There were almost twenty demons in here.

They were all chatting to each other and laughing, as though unaware that they were trapped in a room with the Winchesters, and eating what looked like…Dean wrinkled his nose, eyeing the food – it was certainly unappealing, looked like road-kill that an unfortunate animal had already tried to eat before it gave it serious indigestion, and then had been flattened with a muddy tire. But the demons were happily cutting into it, eating it, the black-green sludge spewing out around their mouths as they talked and ate. It made Dean want to throw up. A little.

His eyes widened when a familiar face finally seemed to take notice of them, and he stepped back as Azazel stood up, grinning amiably like the Winchesters were long lost friends. Sam, too, looked disconcerted, but he obviously wasn't feeling the bone-deep terror Dean was experiencing. "You!" the older Winchester snapped. "No, I killed you!"

"Well, of course you did," Azazel replied, grinning and snorting like suggesting anything otherwise was just foolishness of the highest order. He smiled and there was green stuck around the edges of his teeth from whatever he was eating. "You also killed him, and her, and him, and him…" He went around the room, pointing out demons that Dean and Sam had run into at one point or another in their lives and dealt with – Alistair, Ruby, Lilith, stunt demons one to seventy. It wasn't helping Dean's mental state any, but they were all still smiling at him and he hated that – he hated when a demon was smiling. "You've killed everyone in this place."

"What…exactly is this place?" Sam asked, looking around, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Azazel shrugged. It seemed like he was done being helpful, as he sat back down to his meal and the demons continued to talk. Dean backed away from them, towards the only other door he could see which looked like it led into the kitchen. They could try getting out that way.

When he pushed open the door, though, he had to duck as a knife suddenly came at his head. He cursed, jumping to the side inside of the room and grabbed his gun, cocking it and readying to fire, just in case. There was a high-pitched giggle and then the pattering of feet.

"I once met a man with a dagger in his back. He had the moon in one eye and in the other only black," a young girl's voice sing-songed, the voice getting layers and discordant and Dean shifted uneasily, looking around the stack of baking powder and spices he'd thrown himself behind. He looked around for Sam, saw him just past the grills, his back to one wall and holding his own weapon, and then Dean jerked his head back the way they'd come. Sam nodded, face grim.

Dean didn't make it two steps before another weapon was aimed at his head, this one he barely missed. "Can't go back the way you came! Why would you go back that way? That way is Hell! Bad! Evil! Hell!" The girl's voice was shrieking, echoing off the chrome and tile walls and Dean winced, covering one ear, the other holding his weapon gingerly out as he dove from behind the shelves and aimed, firing blindly into the darkness beyond but no more missiles were sent his way. He got up gingerly, the girl's voice dying to echoes, and Sam joined him.

"This place is weird," he whispered to his brother, who shrugged and his lips thinned out into a grim line.

"Someone doesn't want us to leave here," he replied, heading deeper into the darkness of the kitchen until he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. "Someone doesn't want us going back so we'll keep going forward."

"A sound theory," Sam replied with only an edge of sarcasm, and Dean rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to flip him off.

Sam wouldn't be able to see it anyway.

Suddenly a bright light shone down on the brothers and Dean flinched at the sudden change, and he shielded his eyes, looking up as wind began to blow around the pair, chill and foreboding. The light was coming from a TV screen, and it was showing…

Was that…

_"Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?"_

"Alice in Wonderland?" Sam asked, wrinkling his nose as he figured it out. Dean snorted and shook his head, trying to peer into the darkness around them, to no avail. "So…what…are we in the rabbit hole or something?"

The sound of applause sounded around them. Dean snorted.

"Great," he muttered, running a hand through his hair and they kept walking. "Just freakin' great."

The next room was a ballroom. It was full of red velour-lined chairs, set in concentric circles to each other and in the middle of them; the chairs were piled high in all sorts of weird, wonderful, gravity-defying designs. One of the stacks looked like a sword, the other a dragon, and there was a line connecting them.

"Michael and Lucifer," Dean whispered, because when you spend a year being Heaven's bitch-boy, you tend to notice when things have religious rings to them. Sam nodded behind him and Dean looked around. The walls were white and arched high above the brothers' heads, vaulting up to create a domed ceiling in the shape of a thirteen-pointed star. There was probably some significance in that too. Along the walls were pictures of people that had died. People that Dean and Sam knew. Their mother. Their father. Jo, Ellen, Pam. People that _they_ had gotten killed.

"This is some sick son of a bitch," Dean growled, looking at all the faces, for now he saw why the room was so tall – the walls were covered in pictures. Just faces, but there were thousands. Millions. People that they could have saved, people that they didn't save, people that never were because of them. Children of the victims and the grandchildren of those. Generations and generations that had ceased to exist because of the decision of the two men in that room.

"You boys have a lot to account for."

Dean and Sam whirled around, and there, standing on the top of the dragon's gaping maw, was Gabriel. The Archangel looked tired and when he smiled, it was blinding. He seemed to glow and Dean suddenly realized that there was no light in the room. _He _was the light.

"Gabriel?" he asked, just because.

The Archangel-Trickster smiled and gestured to himself. "The very same."

"You're dead too."

Gabriel smiled and tapped the side of his nose. "Death's such a tricky thing," he said with a slight shrug, stepping down from the dragon's tongue and daintily treading along the line of the sword that was slaying it, arms either side of him like he was walking a tight-rope. "Well, I say tricky. More like fickle. He just cares about the coming, but not about the going. Really, though…you'd think they'd have better security, or at least an escort. I guess not even Death knows what happens to an Archangel beyond the grave."

The boys frowned, because Gabriel was just talking without making sense. The Archangel reached the handle of the sword, climbing to the top of it. "So…are you dead or aren't you?"

"Did you trap us inside of this place?"

"What _is _this place?"

"Questions, questions!" Gabriel sing-songed, spinning around on top of the chair. For an instant he looked in danger of falling but he caught himself and righted himself with little effort, balancing better than any acrobat had a hope of accomplishing as the stack of chairs began to wobble and weave. The painted faces on the walls began to age. "You know, time and death are such tricky things. So _fluid_, you know?" He turned around and greeted the boys with a vacant, slightly menacing smile. "I mean…how long have I been dead for? Do you even remember? And so much has _changed_." He sighed, smiling again, and blood started to leak from the corners of his mouth. Dean and Sam stepped back, eyes widening in horror – even Sam – when Gabriel's eyes turned black.

"Sam," Dean whispered urgently, looking over his shoulder at his little brother. "We should go."

"Yes, yes, go!" Gabriel jumped down, landing on the dragon's tail, blood gushing down around his chin as he smiled. "Always running away, aren't you boys? That's what you do!" The paintings around the room grew black eyes, blood running from their eyes and mouths as well, pooling on the floor in thick rivulets. "Run and find other people to fix your problems! _You are tampering with things that should not be tampered with! Haven't you had enough defying the laws of destiny and order? Surely you've grown tired of throwing a spanner in the works? Eventually you will play with fire and be burned, Dean Winchester, and I will not be the one to clean up your mess! Not this time!" _

It was Castiel's voice overlaying that of his demonized brother, and wings exploded in the air along with a bright white light. Dean and Sam flinched away from it, shielding their eyes as the light only grew brighter and brighter, blinding them, and then with it came a high-pitched whine like an Angel screaming. Dean grabbed blindly for Sam's arm and pulled him, running along the walls until he found a door – any door, any escape.

The air began to burn, randomly lighting on fire and Dean cursed and jumped to one side as he brushed past a floating ball of flame and it grazed his skin, burning his neck. He put his other hand to his burned neck and shoved against a door once he found it, pulling Sam with him before they were burned alive.

Both brothers were breathing heavily – Dean from panic, Sam from exertion. Wide, green eyes found the flat calm of his brother's. "What the ever-loving…?" Dean asked, trailing off after a moment and looking back the way they'd come. There was a bright glow slanting along the floor where the door was cracked open and the room beyond burned. "What kind of mind fuck _is _this?" he growled, getting frustrated now, unable to scrub the image from his mind of all those people, bleeding and burning.

"I don't know," Sam replied stoically, looking around them again. His brow was furrowed, lips turned down in a thin line. "It's kind of like…"

"What, Sammy?"

"Did you ever play those old video games? Like on the Nintendo and stuff?" Dean raised an eyebrow, as he'd never even heard of _MySpace _until a few years ago. "Well, when I was younger my friends had them and they had games that were kind of like this – like, you went into a dungeon or temple or something and in every room there was something to fight, or to kill, or to avoid. And you had to get through the dungeon and then fight the big boss at the end."

There was a slight pause. "…_Why _would anyone want to play something like that?" Dean asked, exasperated and wondering why Sam was even bringing this up. His neck hurt every time he talked and he winced, flattening his palm over the burn again and looking around, hoping to find a source of cold water. The brothers seemed to have ended up back in that dark kitchen with the nameless missile launcher, but it was better lit so Dean could see everything and it looked scarily like the diner that he'd cornered Famine in. Luckily there were no burning and boiling bodies. He went over to a sink and turned on the cold water, splashing some on his neck while Sam answered him;

"I don't know, Dean – it was fun." His voice was snappy and petulant, as though annoyed that Dean wasn't getting the point, here. "What I'm trying to say is maybe this is like that – the most we can do is make it through one room at a time and then we'll find the main boss guy."

"I don't think I want to meet the thing that creates shit like this," Dean growled, knowing he had no choice in the matter anyway – there wasn't a 'go back' option, that was for sure. He straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and wincing again at the stretch of his sore, burned skin, but there was nothing they could do about it – the fastest solution was to beat the boss, like Sam said. "Alright. Come on, Sam." He led the way towards the back of the room, pushing through the door with gun loaded and cocked, ready to use immediately. He wanted to get this over with as fast as possible because they had a meeting with Death to go to and Dean didn't want to be late for his own damned sit-in.

He paused for a moment on the threshold to the new room, peering inside. _Death_ _could have done this, _he thought absently as he looked around the room. There was nothing inside of it and no creepy paintings on the wall. It was boring and very bland-looking, white-walled and white-ceilinged and about as big as Bobby's house. Death certainly had a creepy-ass sense of humor – Dean could see him pulling this kind of stunt. To delay them, maybe.

"Time is fluid." The words came from nowhere and Dean spun around, putting his back to Sam's because, soul or not, there were some habits that never died. The words painted themselves in blood along the walls, and Dean could smell the rust – it was fresh blood. "Well, more like silly putty. Or blu-tac. If one knows how, one can take as much one wants and place it wherever they want. One room could age ten years in one day."

The blood words dripped down onto the floor, pooling in a thick red puddle, and Dean blanched, stepping away from it. There was the sound of a dripping faucet, loud and echoing in the room, but nothing else. It was the kind of silence that made it seem like something very, very big was being very, very quiet.

There was no other door except the one that they'd come through, and Dean looked around carefully, seeing nothing, before he cautiously edged his way back towards the door, Sam following closely behind. Then, it slammed shut, and Dean shied back again, because behind the door was a Hell Hound.

The thing growled at him, baring her ragged, rotting teeth that was caked with flesh and blood and sulfur, her eyes burning, and her body made of smoke that shifted and roiled and occasionally showed the flare of light underneath that made up her essence. Dean cleared his throat, tugging on Sam's sleeve to get his attention, and the younger Winchester turned around, but didn't see the Hell Hound – only Dean could.

The bitch Hound laughed – she had the same voice as the invisible missile launcher in the kitchen, and then suddenly she split in two, becoming two Hell Hounds. The second was a male, larger and more ferocious looking. Their eyes glowed red and they just stood there, watching Dean watch them.

"Sam," Dean whispered, clearing his throat, dread coiling in the pit of his stomach. He hated Hell Hounds – he looked at them and saw his suffering, saw his future. He saw the Pit again and he didn't want to go back – no, anything but that. "Give me the knife." Obediently Sam held it out to Dean, frowning in confusion because Dean looked terrified, and Sam didn't know why or what was causing it. The sound of dripping blood was getting louder, and more like a rushing sound. Like a river of it.

"Jordan River, wash me clean," the she-Hound snarled, baring her teeth further to reveal blackened gums, and Dean's hand tightened around the demon killing knife. He wished he had the Colt, or a shot gun, or something. The Hounds began to advance and Dean backed away, taking Sam with him.

"Find a way out!" he ordered, shoving at his little brother as the Hounds eventually snarled and attacked, running for him. He gripped the knife and slashed wildly as the female leapt at him, catching her underbelly and splitting the smoke apart to bear the light of her essence, and she yelped, backing away with another vicious snarl. Her blood fell to make black grass grow, and the plant weaved around Dean's legs, trapping him in. He couldn't move, and he couldn't run. The Hound's brother launched himself at Dean too, knocking the Hunter onto the ground, and Dean yelled in pain and surprise when the grass twisted around his ankles, dislocating one of them in his fall. Still, he kicked wildly, slashing with the knife and managed to land a punch to the Hound before it could get its teeth in him, sending it flying. No sooner had he done that, though, than the female was back. "Sam! Hurry up!" he yelled.

"There's no way out, Dean!" came Sam's reply, and it was instantly followed by a gunshot. The body on top of Dean went limp and very dark – the Hound killed. A second gunshot rang out and the second Hound fell to the ground also, whimpering in pain.

Dean stilled for a moment, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened, and then he sat up, gingerly shoving the Hound's body off of him. He looked around and saw Sam, who was staring at some point over Dean's shoulder, so Dean turned around…and his gaze locked with that of a man, and that of Gabriel.

The Archangel wasn't the same as the one they had met in the room full of chairs – this Gabriel actually looked like Gabriel. He was holding a sawed-off, the gun hanging casually at his side, and wearing what he'd died in, smirking at Dean and Sam with his regular 'What have you boys done now?' kind of expression. Dean's eyes then tracked to the second man. It was his father.

"Dad?" he whispered, not quite believing, and the illusion of John smiled, coming forward and helping Dean to his feet. The Hunter hissed, leaving weight off his hurt ankle, but Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder, and both the burn and the ankle were fixed. "Gabriel? What?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Saving your asses, of course!" Gabriel said jovially in reply, grinning from ear to ear. "A little Seraph told me that you guys have been getting your asses handed to you left, right and centre, and well, what friend would I be if I let you guys be trapped forever in an illusion? That's just cruel."

The irony of it wasn't lost on any of them.

"And Dad?" Dean asked, sure that this mirage wasn't really his father. John smiled sadly.

"I'm not real, Dean," he said, clapping his hand on Dean's shoulder as well, squeezing lightly. His eyes were kind and gentle, his smile warm like he was really glad to see Dean – like he had when they had been reunited before…before everything. "But they don't know that."

Dean laughed – it was a short, broken-sounding laugh, but it was a laugh nonetheless. He mirrored his father's hold, squeezing John's shoulder because any contact with his father was good, and then turned back to look at Gabriel.

Gabriel was watching Sam. "I can see why you guys needed my help," he said quietly, eyes looking Sam up and down like something was off and he was trying to figure out what it was. "He's…empty. Where's his soul?"

"In the Pit with Lucifer and Michael."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "Oh. I see." The Archangel rolled his eyes, twirling the gun so it rested over his shoulder like a redneck out of a zombie movie. "Eesh, I'm gone for a few months and you guys manage to turn the world upside down."

"Gabriel…" Dean hesitated when the Archangel's fathomless eyes landed on him. "Not to sound insensitive or anything…but you almost tried to burn us alive not ten minutes ago." Sam joined the main group, standing at Dean's side, and below the brothers the Hounds and grasses turned into smoke and wafted away. "What gives?"

Gabriel sighed, and then rolled his eyes. "At the risk of sounding like Shaggy, it wasn't me." Dean frowned. "Listen, you know when I pulled this kind of stunt on you guys? The TV land thing?" They nodded. "Well, as I had a love for bad TV shows, this chica has a penchant for video games."

"Chica?" Sam repeated. "As in, a girl's doing this to us? Who?" Admittedly, the Winchesters had significantly less female enemies than male.

Gabriel cocked his head to one side. "What were you doing when you came here?" he asked.

"On our way to try and get Death to get Sam's soul back," Dean said.

"Ah." Gabriel held up a finger, grinning again. "See, Death doesn't really like being 'gotten' to do anything. In fact, he's kind of the big Boss Man, even more so than God 'cause let's face it, even without God, Death would still exist. And if he doesn't want to see you, then he has no problem trying to kill you in a tasteless video game rip off. Or getting a minion to do it."

"Tessa," Dean whispered, eyes widening as he made the connection.

"Bingo, Dean-o," Gabriel replied, making a gun out of his fingers and shooting Dean with it, winking again.

"Wait, so…are you real?" Sam asked, frowning as he looked around, as though expecting something else to jump out at them if they stayed in one spot too long. "Like…are you actually you? Or just another illusion?"

"I'm as real as you are," Gabriel replied in utter seriousness. "Johnny here's just a program of the Game, but I managed to swap him over to my side with a little recoding."

"Can't you just zap us out?" Dean demanded, frustrated.

Gabriel sighed. "'Fraid not. See, I'm kind of Death's bitch-boy in here, too. I got brought back and he likes me enough not to just kill me again, but I gotta earn the second freedom. I walked into a freaking Dairy Queen and I've been in here ever since. The only way to beat a Dungeon is the beat the Boss, so we gotta find the Boss and kill it. In this case, her."

"You can't kill a Reaper."

"You let me take care of that," Gabriel said again, smiling. "I don't fear the Reaper."

* * *

><p>The next enemy they came across wasn't an enemy at all. It was Castiel.<p>

Well, Castiel twice. And they were both illusions, Dean knew that on a basic level, but still, it was hard to look at that rumpled tan trench coat, those dark blue eyes and that unruly hair without thinking of his trusted friend and Angel on his shoulder.

Gabriel had mojo'd them up some weapons, and Dean hefted his gun carefully while both the Castiels watched the four men with unblinking neutral expressions.

"Why two of them?" he stage whispered to Gabriel.

"Castiel died twice for you," Gabriel replied, his face lacking any of its usual mirth – Castiel was a favored, beloved little brother, and even killing a fake version of him would not be pleasant. Gabriel's mouth twisted in dissatisfaction and anger. "Brace yourself, Hunter – emotional encounters mean we are getting closer to the end."

Dean nodded, and one of the Castiels finally looked directly at him.

"Hello, Dean," he said, in that same way that Castiel had greeted him in the early days – stick up his ass and all. Hell, even the way he blinked was righteous and pretentious. Dean gripped his gun a little tighter – it wouldn't do jack shit against Castiel but that was what Gabriel was for.

"Hey, Cas," he whispered back, hoping that maybe he would be able to distract them long enough for Gabriel, Sam or John to get in a strike. It felt strange working with his father again – it was like John was actually real, and here with him, despite the illusion's own declarations of the opposite. This was the most surreal situation Dean had ever been in and that was saying something.

"It's good to see you," the second Castiel said. This one seemed a lot more human – more relaxed in his posture and emotive in his words. He actually sounded like he meant what he said, and when he looked at Dean, his eyes held affection and faith. Faith in Dean.

Jesus.

Dean swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady. "And you."

"Have you come to kill us, Dean? Again?" the first Castiel demanded, anger flashing in his dark eyes. Around them, the lights in the room flickered and died and out of Castiel's back unfolded two huge, dark wings, flared up high in domination and aggression. Dean fought the urge to shy away from them instinctively, the Angel's power clear to him in that one gesture.

"Don't pull rank with me, boy," Gabriel snarled, seemingly snapping at the display, and his own wings exploded out of his vessel, and he rushed the first Castiel, who bared his teeth in a snarl, drawing his weapon, and met Gabriel half way.

Watching two Angels fighting is utterly terrifying – it's like watching two wild animals go for the kill. Dean looked on as Gabriel and Castiel fell prey to the blood lust and righteous fury that always burned in their Graces – Angels feel three things at all times. Love, Faith, and utter, all-consuming Rage. It helps them fight, and kill and destroy in the name of God. It makes them soldiers. Gabriel's wings clashed with Castiel's like the sound of sword fighting, metal striking metal. They tore bloody holes in each other's wings while their vessels circled, Gabriel striking with his weapon, Castiel with his own.

"You're not a soldier, Archangel," Castiel snarled, smirking in vicious triumph when he landed a blow to Gabriel's arm, making the Archangel hiss in pain and back away slightly. "You don't fight. You fly. You run away. You can't defeat me."

Gabriel snarled again, not answering as he lunged for Castiel, who parried his blow and retaliated swiftly, and the two were lost to each other's attacks again. Behind Castiel, John crept forward, and Dean's eyes widened as he realized what he was going to do.

"No!" he cried out, stepping forward, but was held back by Sam's hand on his arm as John fired directly into the back of Castiel's head. It didn't kill him, of course, but it provided enough distraction that, as Castiel turned around to face the new enemy, his wings flaring out and slicing clean through John's body, Gabriel was able to step between his defenses and slide his Angel-killing blade directly in the space between two of Castiel's ribs, right into his heart.

Dean and Sam covered their ears and closed their eyes at the sound of the Angel dying, only opening them when the light had gone. John had been cleaved in half, laying in a pool of blood behind Castiel's own body, his wings scorched into the floor. Dean looked around but the second Castiel seemed to have disappeared.

He wiped over his mouth with his hand, watching as Gabriel gathered himself, wiping blood from his blade onto the leg of his jeans, and looked down at Castiel and John's bodies. "Rest well," he murmured, eyeing them solemnly, before he turned his attention back to Dean and Sam. As he spoke, the two corpses began to fade away; "Shall we?"

"Shouldn't we wait for Castiel 2.0 to come back?" Dean asked, deliberately not looking at the body of his dead father – even though he knew it wasn't real, he still couldn't do it. He just couldn't look into his father's sightless eyes. Not again.

Gabriel cocked his head to one side. "If you kill the past, surely the future dies too?" he merely said in reply, and Dean frowned, wondering what that might mean. But Gabriel didn't give them time to ponder – "Come on, I want to get the Hell out of here."

"How long have you been in here?" Sam asked as they followed behind, but not before Dean also grabbed the Angel-killing blade from Castiel's loose hand, hurriedly catching up.

"Too long," Gabriel replied after a moment. He approached two grand double-doors. "This certainly looks like the lair of a Boss, doesn't it?" he asked, shoving the doors open with one solid push, and he stepped into the black corridor beyond. Dean and Sam followed closely behind. "If it is a Reaper, the only chance we have is to trap her with Enochian sigils, and then convince her to let us go. We can't kill her without Death's scythe."

"Do you think she'll tell us where Death is?" Dean asked.

Gabriel paused for a second, carefully watching the older Winchester. "Why do you want to talk to Death?" he asked.

"For the redundant tack of resurrecting you," Sam snapped quickly, before Dean could reply. "So that you might get my soul back from the Pit. You in?"

Gabriel blinked, considering it for a moment. "Soulless Sam is a bit of a downer."

"There. We don't need Death. We just need to get out," Sam finished, aggravated and impatient.

Gabriel snorted. "Someone doesn't like being trapped in a video game," he muttered, earning a small smirk from Dean, who was eyeing his little brother cautiously. Gabriel said nothing about the way Dean was watching Sam like he was expecting the countdown timer on a bomb to hit zero. Gabriel shook his head, wondering how the world could have gone to Hell so quickly, wondering what he'd missed, just how much he'd missed, and sighed, continuing onward.

The final room (he had to assume it was the final one because it looked pretty freaking spectacular) was a vault. Literally, it was made of chrome and looked like the kind of place people store millions and millions of dollars. Every surface shone with a polished gleam and it was utterly bare aside from two torches in sconces on the opposite wall. The wall between the two lights was tinged slightly as though there used to be something there and then it was removed and no one ever bothered to clean the place behind it where it used to be, but otherwise everything was very monochrome, and very boring.

Gabriel tightened his grip on his blade and gun, and braced himself. Carefully his wings folded back into his vessel with a soft, dull rustling sound like tons of feathers falling at once.

"Brace yourselves, boys," he murmured, eyes darting around.

"Sam. Dean. Gabriel. How wonderful for you to join us."

The three turned around just in time for the giant doors to slam shut. Dean cursed, and they all turned again to see Tessa standing in between the two sconces, smiling genteelly at them. She spread her hands in greeting, cocking her head to one side. "Welcome."

"Hey, Tessa," Dean said, raising his hands as she began to advance on them. "I think this has been a huge misunderstanding."

"Oh?" the pretty Reaper replied, eyes wide and beguiling, brow furrowed in a small, confused frown. Dean had to admit, she was good – just as good as when they'd first met. However, there was no denying her true nature now – there was just something menacing about her step and the tip of her smile. "Misunderstanding? You see, Dean, Death doesn't really like being at anyone's beck and call."

"Yeah, yeah, no we get it," Dean said, backing away even more as Tessa advanced on him. "We get that. We don't need to speak to him. So if you could just let us go -."

"You expect me to believe that?" she replied, raising a brow and snorting, smirking a little. "Dean, you can't lie to Death."

"Well, I've done it before," Dean replied with a slight smirk.

Tessa's eyes grew stormy. "Yes. There is that."

The sound of Hell Hounds barking started up behind the Reaper, getting louder and closer. There were more than two this time. "You've been responsible for a lot of our work, Winchesters," she said, stepping away. "Gabriel, too," she added, almost as an afterthought. "There were times when you guys, in fact, kind of flooded our workload. It was a huge hassle on our part and there were a lot of souls left behind because we couldn't get to them all. They all had to go somewhere else and now you're trying to crack open the giant vault in Purgatory and flood us all over again." She turned around, folding her arms over her chest. "That won't go over well with the Boss."

"We're not trying to!"

"Don't lie to me, Sam," Tessa hissed, eyes flashing. "You may have no soul, you may be able to lie to a Goddess, but even Goddesses die and you cannot lie to me. Not again." The sound of Hell Hounds was almost deafening now, along with the kinds of screams that Dean had gotten very intimate with – the screams of the tortured in Hell. He swallowed, looking around, expecting at any moment for the dam to break and for the three of them to be overrun with souls of the damned. Slowly, the flames started to die down, making the room fade to blackness. "If you aren't out in the real world, you cannot trouble us anymore."

"Damn it!" Sam cursed as the room was plunged into blackness. However, a snap of Gabriel's fingers later and the room was lit up. In the split second of blackness, thousands upon thousands of people had appeared – specters and ghosts and other monsters…all the monsters that the Winchesters had been responsible for. Dean recognized Boris and his nest of vampires, the family of ghouls that had mimicked Adam and his mother, stunt Angels and demons as far as the eye could see – Hounds, Djinni, Wendigoes, the Rugaru, Madison and her neighbor…all of them, staring at Sam and Dean with barely restrained anger and hatred burning in their eyes.

At the forefront of them all was the second Castiel.

He was staring at them with a forlorn expression; biting his lower lip like standing where he was now was his biggest regret. Dean swallowed, tightening his grip on his weapon. He knew, in the back of his mind, that this wasn't the real Castiel, but it was impossible to think that when Castiel was staring at him like that with those fathomless blue eyes, looking like he would rather be anywhere else but here.

Then, the fake Cas straightened, his lips thinning out, and from his sleeve an Angel blade slid into his hand. "Cas," Dean grit out, shaking his head slightly. "Don't."

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel whispered in reply, swallowing, and straightened up. As one, the horde followed suit. But it wasn't Castiel's voice, but Tessa's speaking to them all. "I don't have any choice." In a moment he vanished and the lights were doused. Dean, Sam and Gabriel immediately threw their backs against each other, listening attentively to try and pick out the sounds of enemies approaching. Dean hurriedly fished out for his lighter, snapping the flame to life in time to see a vampire lunging for him. He quickly aimed and shot, getting the beast in the head, and it snarled and fled away into the darkness again.

He heard a soft whistle and Sam grunted softly off to one side, parrying Castiel's blade as it descended towards his head. Sam parried the blow, clashing his gun against Castiel's sword and sending it skittering away from the Angel's grip, back into the darkness. Dean didn't see Castiel's form in the small circle of light.

"Can't you do anything about this?" he stage whispered to Gabriel.

"Workin' on it, Winchester, don't rush me," Gabriel replied tightly, tersely. He held up his hand, his eyes flashing white, and his palm glowed, sending out a huge ray of brilliant Grace. All the Hell Hounds and demons screamed and disintegrated in the force of the brilliance. Dean's mouth twisted in grim satisfaction, and then he stilled, hearing that deadly whistle again.

"Sam, keep focused," he warned, knowing that Castiel had gone for his brother last time, and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A silver blade flashed in the small light of his flame and Dean yanked his weapon up defensively as it came down –

-And was interrupted by its twin. Castiel appeared at Dean's other side, and the room became brilliantly alight with white light. Around the trio and the twin Castiels were piles of dead bodies of the various creatures – barely any of them were alive anymore. Dean had a sneaking suspicion that the new Castiel – what he had to assume was the real Castiel – had been taking care of them in the darkness.

If they ever made it out of this alive, he owed Cas a beer. Hell, he owed the guy a fucking blowjob for this.

"You have no power, here," the fake Castiel snarled, eyes flashing, and the real Castiel's lips thinned out, he gripped his blade tightly and arched them away from the Winchesters and Gabriel, pushing the fake away so Castiel was shielding Dean with his body.

"How did you find us?" Dean whispered as the clones stared each other down.

"I called him," Gabriel said.

Okay, so maybe he owed Gabriel a beer too.

"You need to find Tessa and get out of here," Castiel muttered, twirling his blade loosely, eyeing his twin and waiting for any slight movement that would mean an attack. "I'll hold him off."

"Come on, Dean," Gabriel muttered, tugging on Dean's arm.

"We can't just leave Cas behind!" Dean protested, yanking his arm out of Gabriel's grip. "We have to -."

"You will just be in the way," the Archangel snapped, his eyes dark and unreadable. Already Sam was through the door, scoping out the next room and making sure it was monster-free. Gabriel watched the Hunter for a moment, and his little brother, and all he could see was the wolf and stallion that had given up their lives for him. "Come on, Dean – if we beat Tessa then we save Castiel too."

"I'll be fine, Dean," came Castiel's softly encouraging voice, and Dean looked back at the Seraph, his expression clearly torn, before he nodded and straightened.

"Just don't get skewered, okay?" he muttered, shaking his head, and then followed Gabriel out into the next, final, room.

"The big Boss," Sam muttered, cocking his head to one side. They were in…Dean's eyes widened – he recognized this place. They were in the diner in Chicago. Suddenly a chill crept over the older Winchester, some sort of dreadful undeniable certainty that lodged itself deep in the base of his skull.

He looked around carefully. "He's here," he whispered. "Death."

Gabriel's mouth twisted as well. "Naturally." He rolled his eyes. "Dude's got more flare for junk food than I do. I suppose it's my fault – I introduced him to Twinkies."

Dean would have laughed if this was a laughing situation. Instead, he sheathed the demon killing knife into the waistband of his jeans and set his gun down, because neither would help against Death. Then, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out Death's ring.

"It's right here!" he called out, knowing that time was of the essence now that Castiel was trapped fighting for their lives. "Come on!" he yelled, more loudly, searching around, and couldn't hide the nerves in his voice. Gabriel, too, seemed similarly wary. Sam looked impassive as ever.

"Dean, Dean, Dean, to what do I owe the pleasure?" The trio whirled around to find a déjà-vu inducing scene; Death, eating a deep dish pizza. Dean swallowed and tossed the ring onto the table. Death looked at it for a long moment. "Well, that's awfully kind of you," he said, slipping it onto his finger.

"Will you let us go now?" Dean asked, ignoring Sam's confused and irritated look that Dean had just given up their only bargaining chip without even trying to negotiate.

"And why on Earth would I do that?" Death asked, looking up from his meal. "You two have been a royal nuisance to me. You lied to me, Dean." He pointed at Dean with the end of his knife. "And I don't enjoy being lied to. You all have escaped my natural order too many times and now you're trying to flood my work load and get me to do forced overtime." He took a bite of pizza, staring unblinkingly at Dean. "I don't like doing forced overtime, Dean."

"Amen," Gabriel muttered, snapping his fingers.

"We don't…we don't want to open Purgatory." Dean swallowed, looking over at Sam, who shrugged. "We needed it to get Sam's soul, but now Gabriel's here. We don't…we don't want anything from you anymore."

"Woah." Gabriel held up his hands. "Who said I'm getting Sam's soul back?"

"Consider it a favor owed if we get you out of here."

Gabriel pursed his lips, and then nodded. "Fair enough."

Death scrutinized them all carefully, taking another bit of pizza. "I'll tell you what," he said, removing the ring from his finger again and setting it down. "I will let you go, on one condition." Dean practically deflated in relief, and he would like to think that Sam, also, would have deflated if he felt such soul-like things as relief. Death leaned forward. "Be me for a day."

Dean frowned. "What?"

"Twenty-four hours of doing my job. I find myself aggravated that you think my time so dispensable as to be wasted on you lot. I don't think you appreciate what exactly it is I have to do. So, be me for a day. I will let you go and you shall begin immediately upon the return of Sam's soul to his body." Death reclined back in his chair, folding his hands over each other on the edge of the table.

"And if I fail?" Dean asked softly, eyes wide and disbelieving, focused on Death.

Death smiled. "Don't."

For a long time, Dean eyed his little brother. He was looking for something – anything – that would mean Sam wanted him to do this, or didn't. Sam, of course, felt nothing, and there was nothing in his eyes, encouragement or otherwise. Dean swallowed, knowing that the task wouldn't be easy and failing Death wasn't really something he wanted to risk trying.

But between his life and Sam's, it was a no-brainer. "Okay," he whispered, nodding. "I'll do it."

A huge sense of vertigo overcame Dean and Sam then, sending them to their knees, and then they disappeared from the diner. Gabriel cocked his head to one side, eyeing Death for a long time, and then he sighed. "You know, I actually did have a plan," he said defensively. "I hadn't intended for it to get this out of hand."

Death shrugged, seemingly without a care, and returned to eating his pizza. "Just tell God next time you see him that his shop could do with a seriously good clean." Then, he waved his hand, and Gabriel and Death's ring joined Dean and Sam back in the Impala, seemingly no worse for wear. Dean looked around, dizzy and disoriented, and frowned.

"What about Cas?" he demanded.

"I'm here, Dean."

The Hunter jumped, looking out of the driver's side window to see the Angel watching him with a slight smile on his face and the soulless head tilt. He, too, seemed unharmed, much to Dean's relief, and again the Hunter deflated against the seat, grinning to himself and shaking his head as Castiel opened the door to the backseat and slid inside.

"Don't you ever do something stupid like that again, Cas," he muttered. The Seraph frowned, but let the comment pass. He nodded to his big brother.

"Gabriel."

"Hey, Cas," the Archangel replied, grinning.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I'm gonna get Sammy's soul here," he ruffled Sam's hair, much to the man's annoyance, "and then Dean's gonna be Death, and then we're all gonna go skipping into the sunset singing show tunes. You in?"

Castiel's brow furrowed again, obviously not understanding much of what Gabriel had just said, but then the Angels had one of those epic-Grace-deep-staring moments, and Castiel's expression smoothed out in understanding. Then, he huffed, sitting back. "I hardly think Dean can comment on my stupidity and then do something like this," he muttered, shaking his head also, but then he fell silent.

Dean smirked, glancing over at Sam, looking forward to the moment when Sam didn't look back at him with a blank face. He felt good about this. Sure, there were so many shades of grey to the situation and so many things that could go wrong, but that's what Dean liked about big plans – there's always a Plan B and he was confident that, with Heaven's new Sherriff and a newly resurrected Archangel who didn't seem like he was going anywhere any time soon, they were well on their way to being alright. He had a good feeling about this.

He drew the line at Gabriel singing 'The Wizard of Oz' as they drove away, though.


End file.
